Ice
by hannahbbug3
Summary: An assassin appears in Crimea, seeking to take the life of the newly crowned Queen and those closest to her. Her retainers and new fiance, Ike, struggle to protect her, as they are faced with both the weight of their own emotional burdens and the threat of the assassin's envenomed blade pressing close to the heart of their country. Multi-part finale to A,I,A, and Company.
1. Introduction

**Setting: Just after PoR, before the events of RD, a continuation of my other fanfics "Accident, Impluse, Affection" and "Company"**

**Pairings: Soren/Lucia, Ike/Elincia, Geoffrey/Nephenee, onesided Kieran/Lucia**

**Description: A New Year is on the horizon for the continent of Tellius. But instead of opening a new year of promise, turmoil has come to Castle Crimea. An assassin darkens the doors, seeking to take the life of the newly crowned Queen and those closest to her. As her new fiance, Ike struggles to keep the peace, both inside and outside the walls of the castle. For while a new preadator stalks from outside, the inhabitants of Melior themselves face conflict. With the tacticians of both Ike and Elincia refusing to cooperate with one another, and the Royal Knights distracted in their personal affairs to pay due attention to the troubles they face, the threat of the assassin's envenomed blade presses close to the heart of their country.**

**Notes: I would like to thank my brilliant co-writer, Falchion1984 (over on deviantART) for all of his work on this fanfic. He is my beta reader, and has written all portions from the assassin's POV.**

**Fire Emblem is not mine.**

* * *

The sun was a white gold in the late December sky when the three Mercenaries sighted the walls of Castle Melior. Expectant blue eyes scanned the balconies for that familiar, gentle, beautiful face… she had been so kind, to invite to put up with them this New Year's Eve…

"Commander."

And he couldn't wait to see her, and feel that warm upsurge of happiness hit him as it always did…

"Commander."

She would be waiting, he knew, maybe at the front gate, to greet them upon arrival, and perhaps there would be a crowd, which he didn't like, but the only face that mattered was hers…

"Ike!"

The sharp voice finally roused him from his thoughts of the Queen. He looked down into the face of his best friend, and smiled. "Hm? Oh, Soren. Was there something you wanted?"

"I just thought it best that you didn't look like a total fool when we arrived."

"What do you mean?"

He heard a light giggle, and turned to see that it had come from his sister. "You always look like you've been hit by lightning. When you think about her."

Ike felt his cheeks darken, and that familiar benevolent grin pulled onto his face. "Oh, uh… right. Right."

He was startled as the envoy the three were riding in came to a halt. His sister gave a small squeal of delight as she exited the carriage and headed up towards the castle. The tactician winced, gathered himself as best as he could, and exited with the look of someone heading to their execution. He had not wanted to come, he hadn't said why, but recollections of the Christmas party were brought to mind… Finally, shaking his head to clear all other thoughts, the Commander himself stepped out, his eyes immediately catching hers, and both of them smiling.

* * *

I am the Chimera.

_Amidst a small grove of pines which rose skyward from a thin carpet of slush rose a sizeable hill that yet retained a thick curve of white. A robin, merrily chirping portents of an early spring, happily skittered up and down the white hill. Blades of grass, freeing themselves, from the long, dark sleep of winter, began to poke through the dwindling carpet of ice crystals around the hill. A pair of bear cubs, roughhousing in a fashion not terribly dissimilar to their talking, two legged counterparts, playfully pawed and chased each other around and over the tiny ivory mountain._

When all eyes were directed elsewhere, however, the hill moved.

For it was not a hill, nor was the white carpet that topped it snow.

I am a stone, I move only by my own will.

_A blur - an arc of silver, green and brown, so fast that even the sharpest eyes might miss it - swept over a patch of slush. Liberated blades of grass sprang up as the patch of ice crystals vanished. Within the hill, a faint slurping sound could be heard as stray bits of grass erupted seemingly from nowhere._

I weave myself into the terrain. The birds nest upon my back and small animals rest against my bones.

_And, indeed, they did. The hill that was not a hill acquired two more robins and, tiring of the roughhousing with its sibling, one of the bear cubs began sniffing about for a meal. The snow continued to slowly but inexorably melt, creating tiny rivers that flowed around and through the hill that was not a hill. All the while, however, the hill that was not a hill remained demurely still..._

...until a certain emerald haired woman appeared in the distance.

I sight my prey, then I wait for the opportune moment.

_A long, narrow section of the light carpet of snow between the emerald haired woman and the hill that was not a hill shifted, rising and then falling like trees uprooted by a temblor. Amidst the eruption of white and the scintillating reflections emerged other, more sinister colors._

Dull brown, a mingling of earthen colors that could go unnoticed even in full daylight.

Iron gray, flecked with a sickly yellow color reminiscent of drab flowers and which seemed to swallow rather than reflect the sunlight.

And, a deep purple ichor, skillfully painted onto a rounded knob of heavy metal which tapered to a point.

I am patient. The prey will grow careless, make some fatal blunder, and I will strike.

_The hill that was not a hill continued its subtle transformation. Another portion shifted, unnoticed by the happy robins or the meandering bear cub, and two liquid gems were revealed. These gems turned in the direction of the emerald haired woman, affixing upon her unwaveringly._

The Chimera had emerged.

Yet, this was no mythical beast with multiple heads and a body forged from so many mismatched creatures. This creature was one, and whole, and all too terribly real. A creature whose like would snuff out the life of another person for sordid coin, or even for the joy of bloodshed. This creature was an especially deadly breed, possessing a killer instinct honed to perfection over the course of a long and flawless career in the art of murder.

And, he remained poised to strike.

The Chimera watched as the emerald haired woman, who'd spent some time pacing back and forth in girlish excitement, race to meet an approaching carriage. The coachman tugged hard on the reins, bringing the carriage to a halt. The Chimera noted, with passing interest, that the carriage in question was one of exquisite make. Carved and gilded with gleaming redwood chased with gold, curtains of red velvet hanging just within windows that offered a clear view of the carriage's decadent, cushioned seats...

...and its occupants.

A common sellsword in ragged leather with a mane of blue hair that look more wild than the animals traipsing about the Chimera's chosen hiding place. A young girl wearing a young boy's boots, a coarse blouse and a rough-and-tumble dress that didn't even reach her knees . And, a dour, perpetually frowning youth clad in the most drab cloak the Chimera had ever seen in his long, bloody career.

The insignia of the Royal House of Crimea shone proudly on a carriage meant for use by the Queen and her guests of honor...which were presently a trio of common mercenaries.

The liquid gems narrowed - or, rather, sharpened - in displeasure, and then flashed with indignation as they reflected the longing in the emerald haired woman's eyes when the mercenaries approached.

The Chimera's client had studiously refused to refer to her as the "Queen," and the Chimera now understood why. The client had been quite vocal and longwinded about the Queen's lack of respect for those of noble stock and her lack of disdain for the churls and plebeians - so much so that the Chimera had nearly turned down the job over his time being wasted. He had ultimately heeded some inner voice that urged him to reconsider, and his instincts had not played him false.

The client was right.

This "Queen" was no more deserving of a royal title than the unkempt girl she now hugged with undisguised delight.

It was the dazzling smile and the look of longing that the emerald haired woman gave the blue haired mercenary that drove the Chimera to finally act. The hill that was not a hill trembled and rose skyward, birthing a tall figure shrouded in a silken mosaic of emerald, silver and deep brown. The dull auburn, iron gray and deep purple remained poised at the distant emerald haired woman.

I have only one shot. I aim for the head.

_The Chimera eyed the purple tipped bolt with a hint of reverence; the reverence of a murder who knows a potent tool of such a trade. His client had gone to considerable trouble, and expense, to procure this particular implement of death. The purple ichor had cost more gold than the Chimera had earned in his life, but it _would_ensure that this so-called Queen's offenses would soon end._

Permanently.

There was a click, a twang and a whoosh as the purple tipped projectile took to the air; and the Chimera, a many colored blur, vanished into the terrain once more.

* * *

She felt her breath hitch in her throat and her heart gave a small lurch. With all the regal air she could muster, she extended her hand to the man whom she'd grown so close to. He gripped it at once, smiling warmly, and pulled her forwards not to kiss her hand, as tradition would have dictated, but into a warm embrace.

She had never been so grateful for his impulsiveness and disregard for tact. She felt a small burst of wind rush by her, couple with a faint zinging noise, and then suddenly, everyone was pulled into motion. The man's younger sister gave a shriek, and she felt the arms around her tighten and begin to jerk her towards the door that lead inside the castle. She could hear the Commander of the Royal Knights shouting orders to mobilize, and from the corner of her eye saw a flash of blue as her sister darted off to the left. She saw a flicker of hesitation cross the face of the man's best friend, before he yelled something to the brunette that was still screaming and darted off after the swordswoman.

Finally, her eyes fell upon the object that had triggered all of this chaos. A single arrow, tipped with a purple point, lying on the ground, where it had fallen after just missing her temple.

* * *

Her efforts were wasted. Whoever had just tried to kill Her Majesty was long gone. She'd found the location of the attack. The pressed down grass was still warm from where the assassin had knelt, but the person was long gone.

Slowly, she became aware that she had been followed. Her blue eyes rose to meet his red. Instantly, her eyes became ice. "You."

"Me," he returned, holding his arms out slightly to the side as if presenting himself. She could not believe he had the nerve to come, after…

"I thought I'd visit."

Her glare wavered as she took him in a second time, but froze over once again. She stood from her kneeling position and rose to full height. Being about five inches taller than he, she gained a sense of supremacy. She had nothing to say to him. Did he really expect to be forgiven so easily? When he'd gotten her hopes up so high, then turned right around and frozen her out? She'd worried about him. After all, if anything happened to the tactician, who would ever think to inform her? Until a week ago, no one had the slightest inkling about what had happened that night… the coronation party…

"Lady Lucia."

Her jaw tightened. She didn't care anymore. "Kieran and I get along well." She had thrown the words out of her mouth, knowing that they would hurt him. He tried to cover the emotion, but she saw him flinch.

"I… see," he said, with a faint air of anxiety. She smiled triumphantly to herself, walking a few paces ahead of him back towards the castle, leaving him chasing after her, as it should have been from the start.


	2. Chapter 1

"Hviskra Murthre," the mage identified, fingering the poison tipped arrow in his pale hands, "in the ancient tongue. The name translates to mean Whispering Death. It's a very potent toxin, there is only one cure, and it is exceedingly hard to come by." He placed the arrow on the table before those that had gathered in the meeting room. "The poison itself is rare, the plant that produces it is found only on the northern islets of Crimea."

As he had been speaking, the emerald haired woman's face drained of all color. His best friend, standing nearby, took her trembling hand into his and stroked the back with his calloused fingered. She looked to him. "Oh, Ike…" Her voice was soft, wavering, "If it hadn't been for you… I would've…"  
"I'm glad I came, Elincia."

The man pulled the woman into his arms, while the other in the room occupied himself with the sight beyond the window. It was a sunny day, and most would've taken it as a good omen for the coming year that would start on the morrow. But here, in the palace…

The silence was broken by the appearance of another in the doorway.

"I apologize for being late, your Majesty," came the light voice. The mage ducked his head a little closer to his chest, saying nothing as the other tactician entered. She spread her maps of the castle town over his of the whole country, but he said nothing. The Queen smiled at her.

"It's all right, Lucia," she said. She then regarded both tacticians. "Do you have a plan?" she asked.

"Well, our immediate course of action should be to find the attacker," the Queen's sister spoke up at once. The mage looked slightly annoyed; his mouth had also been open, and he had been about to say the words that she had just spoken. The woman continued. "I have a network of informants in the city. If I set them in motion, we should be able to determine the identity of the culprit within…"

The mage interrupted. "I suggest that we set about collecting information on—" The woman broke in.

"Excuse me. We should be able to figure out who did this within the week."

"A wonderful plan."

The mage's face blanched. The words had not come from the Queen, but his own best friend…

"Excuse me," the mage started again before more praise could be extolled on the woman whom he was currently angry with. "I suggest we set about finding information on the correct way to extract a cure to…"

"If we capture the assailant, we won't have any need for the cure," the woman insisted. "My plan is the most direct course of action."

The mage appealed to the Queen. "If another attack comes, we will have no safety net. Is that really what you want?"

"If she stays hidden, it will be nearly impossible for her to be harmed. And," the swordswoman argued, "she is under my guard. Do you really think that I am so incompetent to let her be harmed?"

"Your decision, Your Highness?" the mage continued to ignore the other woman.

The queen looked to the man at her side. The Commander was smiling at the swordswoman. "The sooner we can find this guy, the sooner we can deal with him. And once he's gone, everything else will take care of itself. Wonderful plan, Lucia. Thank you so much for your help."

The look of triumph in her eyes, and approval in the traitor's, killed him a little within. He pursed his lips and looked down, giving no other outward indication that he was upset. He did not have to tolerate them much longer. With the plan decided on and its leader in place, the meeting was adjourned.

He gathered up his maps and headed for his quarters. Once his things were stowed away, he headed down to the library. Having been shown clearly that his services weren't needed in the current plan of action, he could devote himself to what he thought was best. He could not believe the others, how foolish they were, to not even prepare…

"Soren, there you are!"

He halted when his name was called, but he could not help bristling slightly. "Do you need me, Ike?" he turned to face the Commander.

"I've never seen you so quiet at a strategy meeting. What's wrong?"

"It's nothing to concern yourself over, Commander."

"Is it Lucia?"

The mage was quiet for a moment. Apparently, that sufficed for an answer.

"I thought so. Listen," he reached out and placed a hand on the mage's small shoulder. "I don't doubt your skills when it comes to strategy. It's just… Lucia is more familiar with this sort of thing, she knows how to find things out, and I just thought she'd be more suited when it came to this. But I… agree."

"On what point?"

"I'd feel a lot better if you looked into that cure."

The mage gave a small smile. "You're not as dense as you seem, I see."

The Commander blinked. "What do you mean?"

"It's nothing to be concerned over. I'll look into it, Commander. You should go back to Elincia."

He moved off down the hallway, but his friend's voice called to him once more. "Soren? About Lucia… I don't think… I mean… Elincia told me to say this," his cheeks reddened slightly. "She said that Lucia, erm… still 'fancies you', and that 'she'll warm back up to you, don't worry,' and she thinks it'll help if you're… 'courteous'."

The mage turned. He paused a moment to gather his thoughts and form them into words. "Thank… thank you for the information, Ike. I'll take it to heart."

His friend laughed. "I don't believe you've ever said anything like that before."

The mage gave another slight smile. "By your leave, Ike. I have work to do."

"Go on, then. And don't forget to come to dinner tonight, we're still having the New Year's celebration."

"As you wish, Ike."

* * *

The swordswoman headed out to the stables, looking for her brother. She would need to inform him that she was going on an errand, and someone needed to watch the Queen in her stead… not that the Mercenary leader would leave her alone at any point, but precautions had to be put into place.

She didn't find her brother, but the stable was not deserted. The red haired knight smiled and moved into a sweeping bow before her.

"Lady Lucia! Dear sister of my Commander! What brings you down to this lowly place? Were you perhaps," a playful light entered his eyes, "seeking company?"

Her forced smile wavered at his loquacious manner. "No, Kieran, I was actually looking for…" He had come over to her and taken her hands. "My brother."

"The Commander? You have just missed him. He and I just finished up our training. But I have nothing important to do. You feeling sharp today? Want to spar me?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful. A defeated look entered his eyes as she shook her head.

"No, that's all right, I really must find Geoffrey, and then I have important matters to attend to. I need to go into town…"

"Do you need a horse?"

"Pardon?"

"You may borrow mine. He won't give you any trouble, and he's fast, too. I'll get him ready for you; I'll be waiting for you down here after you speak to the Commander."

He turned and lifted his saddle onto his stallion without waiting for her reply. She exited quickly. This was wrong, to use him like this, and she knew it, but everything was working so well. Just a while longer and certainly she'd get her apology from the tactician, and then… Kieran was adaptive, he wouldn't take it hard. He would bounce back; it probably wouldn't affect him at all.

She found her brother with relative ease. If he wasn't in the stables, he had to be in his room, and so he was. She informed him of her mission and when she should return and that Kieran was accompanying her. He took in the last bit with a smirk and a shake of the head. "Very well, Lucia. I'll watch the Queen for you."

She passed _him_on her way back to the stables.

"You are going to set the plan in motion?"

"Whether you like it or not."

"My thoughts do not matter. Ike made his decision, and from here on, my opinion is null. I will devote all of my ability to ensure success of your plan."

Her glare wavered. She had not expected his support. And yet…

"Do you need my help? Is there any request you have of me, Lady Lucia?"

"Kieran and I are going into town. Tell Elincia and Ike that we'll be back for the celebration tonight."

He looked at his feet. "I will, of course, as you wish," she heard him murmur. Smiling at another small victory, she headed out to the stables and her awaiting suitor.


	3. Chapter 2

As promised, the two returned for that evening's celebration. The night had been cold, and she had added a red shawl over her white dress to block out the chill. Her escort was dressed in green, a palpable contrast to the red he normally wore. He led her up to the main table in the hall, to the chair with her name by it. She recognized the neat script that had written on the place cards, and she frowned. At least she was far placed from him; someone else must've done the arranging… she was seated between her brother and the red haired knight.

Her escort pulled her chair out before her and she placed herself into the seat with a murmured thanks to him. He then rested in the place beside her, all smiles as per usual.

He was further down, at his best friend's right hand. The Commander's little sister was on his left and the Queen was two seats to the right, between the two Commanders. He did not try to make eye contact with her, knowing that the effort would've been futile. He looked up as the man beside him spoke.

"Enjoying yourself, Soren? Why don't you get something to eat?"

"I'm not very hungry," he replied, his eyes returning to stare at the edge of the table. His friend tried a different tactic.

"There will be dances after midnight. Are you going to—"

"She wouldn't let me cut in," he answered curtly. His friend cleared his throat and looked away. When the silence between them was no longer awkward, he turned to talk to the Queen instead, she being much more sociable and in a lighter mood.

After the main part of the meal had been consumed, servants appeared at every seat, passing out drinks to all in attendance. The mage sat back in his seat and got comfortable; this part of the feast was the least enjoyable. He was always shocked at how many lords would stand to give speeches…

Surprisingly, it was the man on his right that stood to give the first speech.

He rose and cleared his throat, looking nervous. His sister smiled at him, and he seemed to get some reassurance, and then he spoke.

"It is an honor and a privilege to be able to join you all this night," he began. "I wish first for this toast to be to all of you in attendance tonight, and for your good company," he smiled to those on his left and right before continuing. "Secondly, a toast to the night, as we send out the old year and welcome the new. And finally,"

He took pause here, and cast his eyes warmly on the Queen, seated beside him. "In the spirit of the night, and of new beginning, there is something I have to announce."

He cleared his throat, and a faint trace of red embellished his cheeks. "There are many things I could say about the Queen. She is kind, strong, beautiful… there aren't enough word in existence that could justly describe all that she is for this country… and for me. So, in that light, I would like to propose a toast to Elincia; a beautiful woman, and wonderful Queen, and… and my fiancé."

The mage gave a jolt, turning quickly to look up at the Commander. His eyes flashed over to the people further down the table, finding them appearing as shocked as he. Then, there was a burst of applause and a chorus of cheers from those at the party. Beside him, the Commander's sister jumped up and ran over to the Queen, yelling

"Let me see it! Let me see the ring!"

and he raised his own glass in approval, though his mind lingered on how everything in his world had just changed…

The man beside him moved to sit down, muttering to him, "Well, how was that? Mist helped me figure out the words, all except for the last part, of course, and… Soren?"

The mage had opened his mouth to address his best friend, when his eyes had fallen upon the gleaming golden goblet with a purple stain around the rim that the Queen was raising to her lips. He lunged.

There hadn't been enough time to catch her eye, so he had to act. He felt skin slap against the back of his fingers as he knocked the poisoned glass away, and watched as it clattered to the ground in the center of the hall.

She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. She had known he was upset, but never imagined that he would lash out at the Queen…  
She watched as the mage was suddenly jerked backwards at the hands of his friend and shaken so hard that she heard his teeth rattle in his skull.

"How. Dare. You. Hit. Her?" he demanded.  
"Stop! Stop shaking me!" the mage cried after a moment. He opened his eyes and looked into his friend's, and was immediately frightened.

"Why did you hit her?" he yelled again.

And he could not remember, being so focused in his mind that his only friend had just looked upon him with hate…  
He was shaken again. "Why did you hit her?"

"Th-the glass," he stammered. He couldn't recall why those words were relevant, but he thought they might help.

"What? What are you—" he seemed to recall that they weren't the only ones in the room when there was a shriek from his sister.  
"Look at that! Look at what it's doing!"  
Faces turned first to the speaker, then followed her outstretched finger to the goblet on the floor. The liquid inside had turned purple upon contact with the poison on the rim of the cup and was bubbling eerily.

The Queen's sister stood, napkin in hand, and gently lifted the cup. And, even though everyone in the room knew what it was, she confirmed their suspicions. "Poison."

There was a collective gasp in the room after she spoke, and all eyes turned once again to the mage, who had pressed himself against the wall.

"I didn't mean to… hit her…" he murmured.

"Soren. Oh, Soren…" when his friend approached, the mage flinched.  
"Don't shake me again!"  
"No, no no no no! Soren," he reached out, but the mage once again drew away.  
"I…" he began, then simply shook his head and ran for the exit.

The Commander stood frozen as the impact of the last few minutes crashed down upon his shoulders. What had he done?

* * *

"Soren! Soren!"

He could not have been more surprised at the voice that called him. He paused, but didn't turn, a bit worried that he had been wrong.

"…Lady Lucia?"

Her hand rested on his shoulder and pulled him around to face her. Once turned about, her hand fell away, back to her side. On her face was a smile, and it warmed him from within. He hadn't seen _that_in a long time…

"You saved the Queen."

"…yes."

Her smile wavered. "I didn't protect her."

"Lucia, you do excellent work here. Don't doubt that."

"But I'm seeing more and more how good it is that you're around."

His heart rose at those words, and looked up to meet her eyes for the first time. He'd missed her…

It was hard to tell who started it. They both leaned into each other at the same time. He felt his face grow hot, and she was shaking slightly, but they didn't pull apart for a long while.

When they did, her first word shattered him.

"Kieran."

He looked up into her eyes, and noted that she looked surprised. He would have thought that she had forgotten her anger, in the light of what had just transpired, and perhaps she had - but only momentarily. Her mention of the knight's name reminded him, as well. She was angry with him.

He lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Lucia."

She gave a start. So simple… the apology she wanted… there it was. There was no need for her to leave now, was it?

She started to lean in again, but he either didn't notice or chose not to, and turned away. She took one stumbling step in pursuit as he moved away, but he continued his retreat from her, at an ever-increasing speed.

"Have… a nice night, Lady Lucia," he murmured in parting. "Happy New Year."

* * *

_Following the discovery of the poison - and the revelation of how very nearly the evening of the Queen's engagement had been her last - the banquet hall had been thrown into a tumult. Several of the lords who were seated at the table, terrified that they'd been poisoned as well, had to be bodily removed and taken to the castle healers for examination. Others meandered aimlessly, in mingled shock and indignation that someone would undertake such a foul deed. Suppositions, conjectures, indignant remarks and other useless prattle passed every pair of lips until the hall resounded in a cacophony of unintelligible, anxious babble._

With all of the confusion, none of the guests noticed that one of their number - a tall individual who cut an imposing, shadowy figure - had vanished.

In truth, however, this individual hadn't gone very far. A splotch of gloom, a darkness within the shadow of an ornate pillar, was illuminated by a pair of eyes reminiscent of a predator lurking behind a fringe of firelight. Yet, this was a different, and far deadlier, predator than one who stalked the wilderness in search of game. This predator was one who felled his quarry through cunning, rarely even presenting the victim with even a glimpse of their slayer.

Which reminds me, why am I here?

The predator could not say. In fact, upon reflection, this predator realized that being present at this event hadn't been part of the plan which had been devised some hours before. And, indeed, this particular predator survived by remaining well out of reach of prey with teeth...particularly when those "teeth" took the form of a Queen's retinue of knights. Still, the predator lurked no more than fifty paces from the intended prey, and had no idea why.  
Perhaps it was simply to relish the kill, though the predator had believed such uncouth indulgences beneath the dignity of an artist of death. Maybe it was to ensure that the task was done to satisfaction, for one attempt had already failed and the predator was eager to rectify that indignity. Neither of these reasons truly satisfied the predator, so the eyes of death turned from an inward probing to an outward sweep of the tumult the failing slaying had triggered.

Much like the wine had upon contact with the poison, the hall still bubbled with tension and worry. The dour faced youth who had averted the Queen's death had not lingered to bask in praise, but had bolted from the room the moment the minute he was free of the mercenary commander's grasp. The Queen's sister had, interestingly enough, chased after the dour youth. The Queen's brother and his fiery subordinate were already working to restore some semblance of calm and, no doubt, to determine where the poison had come from. The predator was still aggravated at having needlessly come to the site of the would-be assassination, but was not concerned. The two knights' suspicions were already directed at the kitchen staff and, by the time they were done uselessly interrogating cooks, servitors and other feckless domestics, the predator would be long gone. The mercenary commander still seemed stricken; though, whether this was from having throttled the dour youth who was trying to save the Queen of his fiancée's brush with death, the predator could not say. The mercenary commander remained thunderstruck for several long moments, clearly shaken by the near-disaster and uncertain what to do. He eventually settled for plunking himself next to the Queen - who looked no less ill-at-ease - and gathering her in his arms. She accepted his embrace with appalling eagerness and, nearly undoing the predator's reserve in the act, kissed the mercenary commander. Her arms wound about him as if his leathery flesh was as soft as goose feathers and, when her left hand curved about his shoulder, the torchlight gleamed off of a ring.

An engagement ring.

The sight of it jolted the predator back to the present with the force of a meteor tome's blast. The predator had been shocked and disgusted at the remembered image of the Queen's longing smile to the mercenaries...but, this?

The Queen was going to

marry_ a commoner? The Queen was going to marry a _commoner_?!_

It was ludicrous. It was impossible. It was unthinkable. It was...happening anyway.

My Lord must know of this, before word reaches him from elsewhere, _the predator concluded._

The predator could only hope that this new information, and the urgency therein, would inspire...forgiveness on the part of the predator's client. That man had been quite eager to bring the Queen's short reign to an end and, no doubt, this evening's announcement would incentivize him all the more. It might also help to salvage the predator's position with the client; for Whispering Death was notoriously difficult, and expensive, to procure. The client had expended a fortune - two fortunes, the predator corrected - to secure the Whispering Death used in both the two failed assassination attempts. The news that a common sellsword may very well father the next monarch of Crimea might, however, convince the patron that offering the predator another chance would be wiser than seeking another assassin.

After all, they say that the third time's the charm.


	4. Chapter 3

The sunrise of the New Year broke early on the horizon to welcome silence from the city below. The frost lifted off the sodden earth, but its chill permeated in the rooms and halls of Castle Melior. Silence was the welcome norm; few yuletide greetings passed the lips of those in the halls, and not a single smile was seen.

The atmosphere did not bother him in the least. While other faces seemed disquieted, he relished the opportunity to be truly alone with his thoughts.

And he had been left alone. Despite his "heroism" at the feast the previous night, his flight from it had been viewed as a signal. He was to be left alone. Not even the Commander had come.

The Commander… the very thought of him cause another sheet of ice to descend on his mood. The man he'd called friend… everything had changed now.

He was betrothed.

Here was an appalling thought. Its existence alone was shocking. Had this been three years ago, he would have called anyone entertaining the thought of a woman, a noble woman, who would fall for the rough, tactless Commander insane. Yet their travel with the young Princess had left an impression, and it was for that time and the bond that had grown between them that the idea was now feasible. The thought was appalling, but not surprising.

His own view on the matter? The Commander had made a decision. With that in place, his own opinion was null. He had thought that saving the Queen would demonstrate his support, but…

His _friend _had attacked him.

As soon as the Commander had understood, he had wanted to atone, but didn't know how. The mage himself didn't know how. After being the sole person he had trusted, the sole person he kept nothing from, the sole person he'd called friend… the Commander had betrayed that trust. It had only been for a minute, but the mage had invested so much in the Commander that he knew now that it would be impossible to recover everything.

And then there was that girl…

He shook all thoughts of her away. She wanted to be with him, she didn't want to be with him… she hated him, she had kissed him… He did not know what she wanted, he did not know why he wanted her, but he dismissed these oddities as a simple peculiarity of the female race. It was something he was resigned to never understand.

Another peculiarity; he'd never stayed in bed so long in his life. He thought that he was perhaps ill. His head was pounding with unfettered thought and his stomach cramped in on itself whenever he pictured another beorc face. He was glad that the others had left him alone.

He had known that it wouldn't last, and it was with a resigned sigh that he sat up when there was finally a knock at his door.

"Who is it?"

"Me, Mist."

The mage sat up a little straighter. He'd not been thinking at all about the Commander's sister. Perhaps she was the only company he could endure today. "…come in, then."

She pushed the door open with her hip, as her hands were occupied with an assortment of breakfast items. "Morning," she said, smiling at him. He nodded to her as she came over and placed the tray down on the table by his bed. "I was worried when you didn't show up for breakfast this morning. I thought I'd bring some food up to you."

"Hm." He looked at the small platter of fruit and bread that the girl had brought him. He'd eat the bread, but not the fruit. Sweet was his least favorite taste.

She stood there for another moment or two, studying his appearance. "Have you been in bed all this time?"

"Odd, isn't it?"

"Soren, are you feeling well?"

"I'm doing just fine, Mist."

She shifted from foot to foot. "Lucia and Kieran had a fight this morning," she blurted. He looked up, and failed to cover his look of surprise. The girl continued. "He was wondering where she disappeared to after the assassination attempt, and she wouldn't tell him, and…" she trailed off, trying to read the mage's face. She shook her head. "Sorry. I mean, this doesn't interest you, does it?"

"…no," the mage lied, reaching over and picking up a biscuit from the tray to divert the attention the girl was giving him.

She gave a slight nod. "Elincia was wondering if she could come up and see you later," she reported.

"She's the Queen. She may do whatever she desires."

"Yes, but…"

"Tell her that."

The girl nodded, watching carefully for a few more minutes to verify that the mage was actually eating this morning. "And Ike?"

"What about him?"

She picked up on the edge that entered his voice. She gave a final, curt nod, and hurried for the door. "Elincia will be up later. Hope you feel better, Soren."


	5. Chapter 4

The view from her room was not as nice as the view from the balcony. But the sunlight pouring from the window was a comfort; even though her own world was shaking, the rest of it seemed peaceful still. She twisted her hair, tucked it back, and pulled it loose again, an air of unease about her as her fingers turned and played idly with the hem of her sleeve.

She was lucky, she supposed. Twice in the last week her life had been spared due to the actions of others. She was so fortunate… However, she prayed that her luck did not change. The man who sought her life was still out there, and that thought filled her with dread.

But she was lucky, for she had more than the sun to comfort her.

"Who would've guessed, right?"

She turned, a smile working onto her face as her doe eyes met his blue. Her mood was lightened at once as he moved from the stool in the corner he'd been resting on and came over to her. "Here we are. Together. You and me," he said.

"Is it so strange?" she asked, her smile only widening as his hand cupped around her shoulder, pulling her into him.

"I don't know. What do you think? I mean, I'm a mercenary, and you're a Queen, and…"

"We're engaged," she finished the thought for him. She smiled. "I'm sure stranger things have happened."

"When did you fall in love with me?" his voice took on a tone of genuine curiosity as he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Would it be too trite for me to say that it was the moment I saw you?"

His laugher distanced her even further from the presence of the real, heavy world that she had been brooding on only minutes before.

"Would it be selfish of me to ask you to answer again? After all, the first time you saw me, you were scared out of you mind. I'm sure you were thinking of more important things than me."

"Oh, stop, Ike. Begnion, then."

"Hm?"

"When you stood up for me in front of all those senators and the apostle. You said you didn't know that you were risking your life, but when you were told that… even still, you said you'd do it again… I think that's what did it. I think that's when I fell," she said. She looked deep into his eyes, finding them warm with compassion. There was a comfortable silence following her words, during which the two remained standing in the middle of her room, embracing.

"What about you?" she returned after a while. "When did you fall for me?"

"The moment I saw you."

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Ike…"

"I think it was Gallia. I just remember seeing you with Mist all the time, talking to her, comforting her after father died, even though you had suffered so much yourself… I love that about you. I knew from then on that I liked you. And then, after I met the senators and nobles in Bengion, and saw how different you were, I knew that you were something special. There's not another soul in the world like you, Elincia. I'd hate for the world to lose you. _I'd_hate to lose you."

The mood quickly turned back to the situation at hand. She leaned against his chest, and he rested his chin gently on her head. He rubbed her back absently and each settled into their own silence.

There was a soft knock at the door. The Queen pulled back and looked in the direction of the noise. "Come in," she called.

The Commander's younger sister pushed the door open. Upon seeing her brother and the Queen with their arms around each other, her face reddened. "Did I come at a bad time?" she asked quietly.

"It's fine, Mist. What is it?" her brother asked.

"I was just up in Soren's room. He said that you could go up and talk to him," she said, looking at the Queen.

"That's a relief," her brother gave a deep sigh. "I thought that he—"

"Not you, Ike. Just Elincia. I don't think he wants to see you," she said softly.

He tensed. "Soren said that?"

"No, but Soren doesn't say what he really thinks all the time. He just made me leave when I brought up your name. I'd say that means he doesn't want to see you."

The Commander sighed, his arms falling to his sides as he looked back at his fiancée. "That's all right. I'm sure… sure he'll... tell him I said hello, would you?"

She gave him a faint smile. "I will. I promise."

* * *

The Queen's knock was much softer than that of his first visitor. The mage straightened from his place at the writing desk in his room and turned towards the door. "Come in, then."

She entered and simply stood there, looking at him. His pallor was still drained from his sleep, or maybe that was how he always looked, she could never tell… she'd never really looked at him before, but he'd always been in her fiancé's shadow. She wondered now how she could've overlooked him so easily, when he'd studied everything with such tedium that he'd been able to act and save her life…

"…did you need something from me, Queen Elincia?"

"Thank you, my Lord Soren," she said, breaking out of her thoughts and stating the purpose of her visit.

"You're welcome."

She could not read his expression, but saw it change at her next words. "Ike says hello."  
She saw his shoulders tense and the shadow flicker on his face.

"That's nice," he responded tersely. "If that was all, then you'll have to excuse me, I'm very busy…"

"Soren, I'm sorry."

He looked mildly surprised at that. What could she possibly be apologizing for? Though, a part of his mind whispered to him. _"It's about time that someone is.."_

"I've caused so much trouble for you. It was because of me that Ike lashed out at you like that. I'm sorry."

"…yes. All right," he nodded to her, and she saw him relax ever so slightly. "If that's all, then…" he glanced over to the door, and she took the dismissal this time.

"Of course. I'm sorry to interrupt. Thank you for talking to me," she began to pull the door to after her when she heard him speak her name.

"Queen Elincia, wait."

She looked into the room again. He seemed to hesitate a moment, but continued speaking. "Lucia… would you send Lucia up here? I need to…" he pointed vaguely to his writing desk, and she nodded.

"I'll send her."

"…she'll come?"

"I'm sure, if I tell her. Do you want that?" she sensed his unease, but he nodded in confirmation. "All right. She'll be up without delay."

He said nothing more, and turned back to his desk as she closed the door.

* * *

_A cock crow, echoing balefully, roused the predator from a fitful slumber which had been anything but restful. In fact, he could not even remember a time when he had felt so exhausted. His head was too heavy for his neck and even the simple act of keeping his eyes open seemed to require a herculean effort. And, with that heavy exhaustion, also came immense pain. Only years of tirelessly honed discipline kept the predator from groaning as he, with considerable reluctance, came to his senses. The room he had awoken in was frigid, as if all of the chill remaining to the waning winter had been amassed here to impress upon him the direness of his predicament. His lungs felt choked, as though half full of water, and blood red splotches performed a terrible dance before his eyes. Every bone in his body flared in pain that verged on overwhelming - being trampled by a carriage could not have caused such agony - while his joints felt impossibly stiff and limbs leaden._

The only thing he could still move freely were his throbbing eyes...which informed him that, in addition to his other misfortunes, he was now in chains.

His boneless neck flopped his too heavy head in another direction, and he could dimly perceive that he was in a large, dank chamber of stone. Manacles and chains, some containing the remains of their occupants who greeted the newcomer with perpetual grins and sightless eyes, lined the walls and sunlight entered in jagged streaks from a grated window situated mockingly far above the captive. Across from him stood a door of sturdy wood, heavily reinforced, and with a slotted portal at its top and bottom.

A dungeon, but whose?

His mind, no less languid than the rest of him, tried sluggishly to mull over what had happened. The possibility occurred to him that he had been caught by the queen's men, but he discarded that notion quickly. The queen was too soft to employ such a macabre tactic as letting a close mouthed prisoner share a cell with a number of corpses. Even in the predator's profession, he'd seen such a tactic only a handful of times, and never from this perspective.

Once more, the predator tried to recall the events of the previous evening. He remembered, with bitter clarity, that the dour youth he'd spied in the royal carriage had thwarted the predator's second attempt to assassinate the queen, as well as the blue haired sellsword's rather startling announcement. He recalled also that, after the queen's brother and his fiery subordinate had blundered their way through an investigation of the kitchen and its staff, the castle had been sealed in case the would-be assassin was lurking about.

This had resurrected the vexing question of why the predator had gone to the party when his own instincts warned him against such a thing. Still, when he saw that several of the guests were being questioned, he realized that his inexplicable lapse in judgment might soon cost him dearly.

Luckily, he had not

completely_taken leave of his senses; for he had brought with him a means of escape._

His still throbbing eyes spied a small pouch at his belt, filled with an arcane powder whose contents would have made the predator the envy of many a mage.

Warp Powder.

That had been a most fortuitous discovery, made by certain parties in the employ of the predator's client amidst the ruins of Nados Castle, which had become tomb to the infamous Black Knight of Daein. And, the pouch had been entrusted to the predator in order to facilitate the assassination, as well as a means of egress should things go awry.

So, why did the Warp Powder transport me _here?_ Or, did it?

The predator could not say, his head was still full of fog and his normally keen wits had been made slow and dull by pain and exhaustion. Neither, however, blinded the predator to one grim fact.

He was now helpless.

The predator had become the prey, ensnared and awaiting the trapper's return.

And, as it turned out, his wait was brief. The stout locks on the door rattled abruptly and the door was flung open. At the threshold stood a pair of armored knights, their chest plates emblazoned with the emblem of the client's house. And, in a starburst of realization, the predator realized just where he had found himself.

And, that it was just about the last place he wanted to be at that moment.

The dungeon he had found himself in was that of his client, and so too were these armored guards.

The pair did not explain the reason for their presence but, then again, they hardly needed to. With a thunderous succession of clanks, they approached the bound predator, unlocked his manacles and hauled him to his feet. After seeing that the predator was in no condition to walk, they exchanged disgusted stares and literally dragged their captive out of the dungeon, down a corridor and up several flights of stairs. The predator, still barely half conscious from the aftereffects of the Warp Powder, lapsed into a feverish slumber, that left him even more exhausted, and awoke to find himself seated in a crude wooden chair. The coldness of iron at his wrists and ankles wordlessly informed him that he had been shackles once more. Forcing his groans of pain and weariness to echo only in his skull, he laboriously raised his head to scan his surroundings.

And, before him, stood his client.

Ludveck, duke of Felirae, loomed menacingly above the defenseless predator, clad in armor more ornate than his guards and leaning upon the haft of an enormous axe. His face was pinched with anger and, fuming, he backhanded the predator with bone jarring force.

"You have failed!" Ludveck snarled, quaking with rage.

The predator, again trapping any outcry that might escape and further demean him in Ludveck's eyes, forced his gaze into an ungainly swivel to meet the duke's cold stare.

Though I may be outmaneuvered, though I may be cornered, I am never defenseless.

"I have already learned of your failure," Ludveck went on. "Indeed, it's all anyone will speak of this day! I gave you the perfect weapon to eliminate that upstart wench, practically bankrupted myself in so doing, and you have disappointed me. Not once, but twice! Your reputation did not paint you as so...inept."

The predator refused to be baited. Ludveck was, no doubt, expecting him to grovel or to offer excuses, but the predator would do nothing of the sort. Instead, he leered back at Ludveck in silent defiance. The Duke, seeing his menacing scowl did nothing to cow the predator, backhanded the captive a second time.

_"My men found you passed out in the woods after you used the Warp Powder to escape the castle and brought you back here," Ludveck went on. "I passed a restless night, as I imagine you did, wondering how you could have blundered this assignment."_

The duke shifted his grip on the axe, drawing it up and back over his head like an executioner whose victim was bound and thrust upon the block.

"Tell me," he entreated, "why should I let you live after this debacle? Why should I not recoup at least a little of the expense I've put myself to, and keep your head as well as your pay?"

Nothing in nature is stronger, swifter, or more cagey than a cornered animal. Those who try to ensnare me will be defeated by their own overconfidence.

"I offer no explanations," the predator replied, each word demanding an effort. "Certainly no excuses. I offer only one reason why you should let me continue my mission: you can't afford to do otherwise, because the wench is about to do worse than you ever thought possible."

There was a gray blur, and the predator sensed the blade of the axe scraping against the soft flesh beneath his jaw. Ludveck, who had leaned forward to glower into the predator's face, gnashed his teeth in fury while the whites of his eyes became shot through with crimson hairlines.

"And, just what is she about to do?"

In ten simple words, the predator told him.

"She is going to marry Ike of the Greil Mercenaries."

The muscles in Ludveck's face suddenly went slack. His furious countenance ran like molten iron, his snarling jaws suddenly parting and drooping to dangle limply in undisguised shock and, if the predator's still pained eyes did not deceive him, abject horror.

Ludveck's axe trembled under the predator's chin as the hands holding the weapon's haft suddenly quaked. The duke, regaining at least a portion of his composure, began to probe the predator's face, no doubt seeking some hint of duplicity. The predator instead leered back, though more in impatience than anger, wordlessly daring the duke to follow through on his initial plan to slay the predator...

...and, in so doing, doom himself to bending his knee to a common-born sellsword.

After a long, long moment, the duke blew out an aggravated breath and gestured to the armored guards, who had flanked the door outside the predator's field of vision. The pair noisily approached, unshackled the predator and hauled him to his feet, almost gently this time.

"Take him to the guest chambers on the far side of the east wing, and make sure no one enters that room except for myself," he instructed, then met the predator's gaze once more. "I would advise that you get some rest. You have much to do in the coming days."

With that, the armored guards hauled the predator away from the duke and, for all intents and purposes, away from the jaws of death.

Though the predator can be cornered, he cannot be taken. I will lick my wounds, rest my body and then seek out my prey once more. A wound, a setback, a defeat, even a brush with death, only serve to make the predator wiser, craftier and deadlier, as well as sweetening the flavor of the kill. By surviving, my prey only ensures their demise.


	6. Chapter 5

When she opened the door, she found him bent over his papers so that his bangs brushed them, his chin nearly resting in the inkwell. She cleared her throat to call attention to her presence, and he looked up to her.

"You called for me?" she asked.

"And you came." He looked mildly intrigued by this fact, even though he had known that she wouldn't have refused the Queen's order.

"What did you want?" she asked, appearing irritated.

"I was wondering if you were any closer to finding the Queen's attacker."

Her quirked brow was a tell; she had not expected him to care, but then, he never fulfilled her expectations. "…I left my report in my room."

"Shall I go with you to get it?"

"I… sure." He shadowed her as she left the room. She wondered distantly if he had heard about her spat with the knight this morning, but found herself not caring. She pushed the door of her room open, and when he hesitated at the door, she inclined her head to invite him in. She went at once to her mahogany writing desk and pulled from the top drawer a yellowed map of Melior and a tightly folded manuscript with a freshly broken seal. The map was spread on the surface of the desk, and the manuscript placed in his awaiting hand. Red eyes pried for information even before fingers unfolded the parchement – from the first glance, he gleaned that the worn report had come a long way. Second observation, and the design of the seal, revealed the origin; Felirae. He made the connection quickly.

"You suspect Ludveck?"

"His province is in the north, and that region is most known for the plants that grow there. I wouldn't be surprised if he had the capacity to grow Hviskra Murthre himself. And if not, he's a lord. He certainly has the resources to procure such a rare toxin."

The mage nodded at once, and she suspected an appeal to her better nature. "The evidence does seem incriminating. Does he have motive?"

"He covets the throne," she said.

She noted, with more than a hint of incredulity, that Soren seemed to find her reasoning unsound.

"Publically," she added pointedly. "During several meetings of the court and senate, he has made scathing criticisms of the queen and her governance. Some of the other senators have also warned us that he's privately intimated that the queen is unfit to rule Crimea and should be... replaced. Apparently, he was doing far more than just opining," she said, smiling as she saw him nod in reply.

"It seems rather risky for him to do this when he's been such a vocal opponent of the Queen," Soren remarked, causing Lucia's expression to harden. "But, he could be the impulsive sort. Or, maybe he's hoping to be overlooked because he's _too_obvious a suspect. What else do you know?"

"We've been watching him for about three months now. He seemed the sort of man to be wary of. But there is no solid evidence that ties him to the assassination attempts. We cannot act," she said, frowning.

"So… would you like my input?" he seemed worried for a moment, hinted by his hesitation, but she encouraged him with a nod.

"We need to capture the assassin."

She was offended. Did he really think that—

"Listen to me Lucia," Soren cut in forcibly. "I don't think this covert investigation is enough. I may not know Ludveck as well as you do but, if he is behind this, I'm sure he'd take the simple precaution of making sure to conceal or destroy anything incriminating. There might not be anything for your spies and informants to find. So, we should focus on acquiring the one piece of evidence that Ludveck can't afford to hide or get rid of, at least not yet."

"The assassin himself," Lucia finished

"Exactly. Assuming that the assassin who tried to poison the queen is the same one who fired that poison tipped bolt at her, this assassin has already failed twice. And, from what you told me about Hviskra Murthre, those were expensive failures. By now, the assassin has to be worried, and desperate. He could find himself a target of Ludveck himself if he fails again. So, we have to play on that desperation. We'll make it look like he has the perfect opportunity to assassinate the queen, and then we'll spring our trap."

"Assassins don't readily betray their clients. What if he doesn't tell us anything?"

"He might reconsider...after we tell the town criers to announce that he already has."

"Which means Ludveck will target him, just as you supposed, and implicating Ludveck will be his only chance for survival."

She considered this, and him, and her trust in his reasoning, before a faint smile drew upon her face.

"And, just what sort of trap do you have in mind?" she asked.

"Bait and switch."

She seemed to suddenly grow excited. "You mean…"

"A false Queen. Have someone pretend to be Elincia. Someone, of course, that would be willing to give their life for her, in the event things go awry, but…"

"We could have men stationed around to look for the attacker…"

"Exactly! And when the attack comes…"

"We won't have to worry about the Queen! We can get him!" she smiled at him, in wholehearted support. "Brilliant, Soren!"

He mimicked her expression. "Well…"

"Really, it's a brilliant idea, I should've consulted you sooner, I—"

"My lady! Are you in there?" The two were interrupted as the red clad knight burst in. "Lucia!" his eyes moved over the mage without seeing him and went straight to the Queen's sister. He hurried to her side and grabbed her hands.

"Lucia, I must speak with you!"

"Kieran, I'm working on—"

"I'm so sorry I yelled at you this morning! It was out of line. I should've never lost my temper. I'm sorry!"

"It's fine, now, if you please—"

"But I must know, Lucia. Where did you go? Why did you leave the party?"

"That's none of your concern. I'm trying to—"

"Why won't you tell me? Are you in some sort of danger? I can help you! Tell me!"

The woman pulled her hands from him. "Kieran, I'm trying to work!"

"But Lucia—"

The mage grit his teeth. All this yelling, he'd have a headache later if this didn't stop… "She was with me," he interjected. The knight turned and looked shocked to see that he and his "lady" were not alone.

"…you?"

"Yes, Kieran. I was only thanking Soren for saving Elincia. That's it."

He frowned. "And you wouldn't tell me that, why?"

When she didn't answer, he whirled on the mage. "Why wouldn't she tell me?"

"How should I know? Please… Lucia, I'm going back to my room—"

"And why are you in here now?"

"Kieran, we are _trying_to catch the person who's made two attempts to assassinate the queen. I would appreciate it if you let us get back to work."

The mage felt his stomach tighten. It was if he could sense what was coming after she had spoken those words. He needed to leave, and now, he didn't want to be dragged into this…

The knight was in his way. "I just wanted to know, Lucia. I was only concerned," his voice was tight with anger.

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine. Maybe you should do something more useful, like protect the Queen, more like Soren?"

"Soren?" he grit his teeth. "If you want to spend so much time with him, then why am I here?"

She straightened to her full height, tilting her chin up. "We were working."

"Oh, I'm so sorry that I interrupted!" the scorn in his voice made the mage wince. "I'll just let you get back to your quality time, then!"

"It's not like that, Kieran!"

"Ashera, will you stop!" the mage seldom raised his voice, but when he did, he commanded the attention he wanted. "It was just a kiss, Kieran, you know women, how they toy with—" he realized his mistake too late.

"…you kissed her?"

The mage looked to the girl, who looked both appalled and angry. "Soren, you weren't supposed to—"

"You _kissed _her?"

"She…"

"She's with me! You… half blood scum! How dare you!"

He edged towards the door, jaw clenching. "She kissed _me_!"

"I can't believe you!" he whirled to face the woman. "I can't believe _you_! I—" he broke off and finished with a glare, the expression saying everything. He stormed from the room.

The mage looked to her. Her face was tight, unreadable. She looked to him. "Leave," she commanded shortly.

He complied at once.

* * *

_Few signs of the newly ended winter lingered in the hills and forests of Crimea; much of the snow that had once blanketed the land having reduced to an ever-diminishing slush which now slaked the thirst of the newborn plants and awakening trees. Much of the grass, still sodden with melted snow, lay damp and bedraggled while many of the trees were still bare, only the tiny beginnings of leaves present to herald the rich season ahead. With an early spring bubbling to life in full force - promising hills overgrown with flowers and the richest of harvests - many a man or woman would have found themselves grinning from ear to ear simply by wandering through the land and taking in the sight of the burgeoning renewal dawning all around them._

The pleasantries of these sights, however, were lost on the first such wanderer.

I am the Wolf.

There was a faint rustling amidst the largely bare trees and branches which were still damp with slush trembled as if stirred by an unfelt breeze.

Or, jostled by an unseen weight.

The vast expanse of sky, once a mirror to the sprawling plains of ice below, had acquired blemishes of blue as the early spring continued to make its presence known. The dour clouds of winter, fragmenting under the onslaught of sunlight, rolled on by as if in dejected resignation to the turning of the season as ivory and azure continued its slow march across the heavens.

Nearer to earth, another pattern of white and blue took to the air, seeming to weave itself into the sky, before another sodden branch trembled under an unseen weight.

This branch, however, trembled more violently than the first. There was a howl that no winter wind could produce and the tip of the branch bent downward at a hideous angle.

I will endure whatever pitfalls mar my path with patience and cunning.

The howl was abruptly swallowed and, after a moment, the groaning branch straightened. The blur of white and blue continued its journey across the treetops, eventually finding a place where it seemed content to settle. At least, for the moment.

I seek out my prey, observe them and plan my hunt.

The blue and white upon the tree rippled and then seemed to recede while a deep brown poured out to replace it from some unseen vessel. The brown proturbence then settled against the upper trunk of the tree as if it had been there for years.

But, this was neither a part of the tree nor a part of the sky.

This being did, however, sometimes consider itself to be a part of the natural order of things nonetheless.

It was the Wolf.

But, this was no iron gray lupine with claws and fangs.

Indeed, this Wolf possessed claws and fangs far deadlier than any animal of forest, sea or sky.

The deep brown which had melded into the tree stirred, so slightly that any who spied it might mistake the sight for a sun spawned illusion.

Nonetheless, a hallow formed in the tree's newly added bark and, from within, two liquid gems gleamed in the darkness.

The Wolf had found the vantage point from which to stalk his prey.

And so, he watched.

And, he wished he hadn't.

The first day of observing his prey, the very day after the Queen's second brush with death, saw her deliver her belated thanks to the dour youth who'd thwarted the predator once already. Liquid gems hardened at the sight, noting the blithe confidence that the Queen displayed as she strolled down the expansive corridors of the castle.

Her confidence, however, was not completely unfounded. Armored guards patrolled the corridors, in larger numbers than was customary and on a heightened alert following the narrowly avoided disaster the previous evening. Not to mention the signs of other defenders which one with lesser eyes than the Wolf might've missed.

Hints of sharp blades and even sharper eyes gleaming from within the shadows.

Pairs of boots that peeked out from beneath the larger tapestries.

Long avenues of ornamental suits of armor, where the illusion that the armor might seems as though ready to spring to life was no illusion at all.

And, to round out the castle's newly bolstered defenses, teams of falconers with their birds and archers with their weapons now roamed the parapets, on the alert for any other attempts to murder from a distance.

The prey may be alert, the prey may be fast, the prey might even be clever. But, inevitably, that will fail them; I need only be ready to take advantage of it.

It was not, however, the prey's attempts at staving off the inevitable that soured the Wolf's stomach, however.

The Wolf continued to study his prey as she found her fiancé...and the Wolf found himself wondering if the two of them would _ever_ separate_._

For countless hours - for _days_ _- _the Wolf lurked in his tree and watched_._

Seemingly from dawn to dusk, the Queen was alongside the uncouth churl whose ring she inexplicably wore.

He watched as they shared their meals in the castle's dining hall, the Queen snickering at her fiancé devouring quantities of food that would've satisfied any other man for the better part of a week.

He watched as they sat together at her desk, no doubt trying to improve the churl's command of the written word, and more often than not ended up flinging ink in each other's faces instead.

He watched as the pair took to the training field and engaged in mock duels that, more often than not, ended with the pair chasing each other about like small children or rolling around on the turf kissing one another feverishly.

And, in what the Wolf's client would surely consider the gravest insult, he watched as the pair greeted official visitors of all classes and descriptions, the sellsword making a point of clasping the hand of all comers.

A few of those thusly accosted wiped their hands on their kerchiefs, but others gazed at their hands as if they'd suddenly transformed into some sort of sacred relic.

_It's a pity she's the only one my client wants dead_.

Indeed, the contagion that the Queen had unleashed seemed to be spreading, and rapidly. One of those official meetings the Wolf had observed involved the Queen and the sellsword meeting with the Queen's brother and a teal-haired halberdier, who looked like an even greater bumpkin than the unkempt tomboy that the Queen was so fond of. In fact, this bumpkin seemed ever more tomboyish. She was lanky and gawky and, if she were any more muscular, he might've suspected her as the first woman berserker.

The Wolf recalled that he had seen her before; after all, even the irrelevant did not escape his sharp eyes.

The New Year's Party was not the only time the Wolf had penetrated the castle, though another attempt would surely prove more complicated.

At the coronation party, he had seen the bumpkin, looking satisfyingly abashed at her battered, patchwork armor and her rustic features.

This did not, however, stop the Queen's brother from stooping to ask her for a dance. And, after a blush stained her cheeks with seeming permanence, she had had the audacity to accept. His nauseating displays had not stopped there either, for he had been quite eager to share his evening meal and wine with her and, after noting her newfound fondness for chocolate that rose in a small hill on his dessert plate, had insisted that she take the entire dish.

He had seen her a second time - much to his revulsion – at the Christmas Party. She had dressed more formally, in a teal colored evening gown, but a silk-clad ragamuffin was still a ragamuffin nonetheless. The two had danced again and, according to the gossip that had reached his ears, the Queen's brother had stooped all the further by visiting the bumpkin's family and bringing modest, but significant offerings for their boorish hospitality.

More than a few of the more mutton headed ladies in waiting found this flirtation quite endearing, and had even called it a courtship. The Wolf had ignored it, more for the benefit of his already twisting stomach than from any carelessness, but the meeting he beheld forced the memory to the forefront of his mind…and nearly forced the contents of his stomach to add a new coloring to his camouflage.

That the Queen's brother and the bumpkin clasped hands as they knelt caused a sickened supposition to form in the Wolf's mind. The Queen rising to meet the pair and planting a familial kiss on each of their cheeks was a strong hint. And, the Wolf's suspicion were confirmed with nauseating clarity when, from then on, the Queen's brother and the bumpkin began sharing a bed.

The Queen's sister - the so-called rational one - was even worse. The Wolf had observed her as well during his earlier visits, noting that she had no objection to her brother courting a bumpkin. Worse still, the Wolf saw her dancing with the dour youth who had averted the Queen's death last night. But, the two of them had met only infrequently since a spat between them at the Christmas Party, which soon degenerated into bickering. Yet, the Wolf saw them meet again during the first day of his vigil, standoffish and distant, yet he could sense an undercurrent of longing in these squabbles and, whenever the Queen's sister was in the company of the red haired knight, her discomfiture was obvious. A lover's quarrel, but one of the more peculiar pairs of lovers the Wolf has seen in some time. One of them being another sellsword, from what he could tell. Now, the Wolf could not tell whether it was the woman with the emerald tresses or one or both of her azure haired siblings who had been the source this contagion.

It was, however, a moot point. The Queen, it seemed, was not the only one about to throw the propriety of her station to the wind. Still, the Wolf remained focused. He could not afford distractions, especially not now.

For the Wolf himself was in danger of finding himself hunted as well.

The Wolf's news of the Queen's engagement to the sellsword had, as expected, earned a measure of leniency for his past failures, but the client was not yet willing to overlook the expense he'd put himself to in financing an assassination which had yet to succeed.

During their most recent meeting, the client had intimated that, the next time the Wolf failed to deliver a return on this particular investment, would be the last.

The Wolf continued to watch the pair, his guts roiling from more than just the sellsword's horrifying eating habits.

The sellsword was baiting him.

As if the churl on the Queen's arm could sense the Wolf's dilemma, the sellsword was taunting the Wolf with this seeming display of careless affection that belied a simple but effective strategy.

The Wolf could see the sellsword in the dining hall, clearing a table full of food while his fiancée gently teased him, but the Wolf could also see that the sellsword always had the Queen sit in a chair with its back to the window. The large ornate chairs seemed as if to devour her lithe figure, presenting no target for any ranged attack.

The training field where the engaged couple waged their duels and, the Wolf suspected, waged trysts as well, was more defensible than the castle itself. Forested with towers for archery training, festooned practice dummies for melee combat practice and littered with obstacles which mounted warriors were trained to weave around and leap over, the Wolf might as well have tried to assail a beehive with a stick.

Even the questionable sojourns to the Queen's chambers had some cunning behind them, for the windows had been newly reinforced with thicker panes of glass which might very well require a battering ram to penetrate. What's more, the corridor leading there was a veritable gauntlet of guards, visible and concealed. Even the balcony, a seemingly glaring weakness, presented still another layer of defense. A menagerie of exotic birds had been arranged upon the stone proturbence, which would surely erupt in a discordant symphony of frightened screeching at the sudden appearance of a stranger. And, even were that obstacle overcome, the door connecting the balcony to the Queen's chambers was doubtless barred from within.

As a final defense - and, the Wolf suspected, a final taunt as well - the Queen's brother and the bumpkin were always well within earshot of the couple and ready to meet any threat to the Queen's life with cold steel.

The sellsword knew all this, and was doubtless taunting the Wolf with the knowledge that time favored the churl.

And, that might not be far from the truth.

Indeed, the Wolf found himself wondering how long he would wait for a chink to form in the armor which he now beheld. Or, rather, how long he _could_ wait_._

Would the chance present itself at the rehearsal? Perhaps at the gown fitting? Maybe during the ceremony? Would he have to wait until the wedding night or while the Queen was bearing the churl's dirty blooded brats?

Sordid images danced across the assassin's imagination, involving such morbid delights as the Queen fattening up like a sow under the inward onslaught of her ravenous, dirty blooded unborn or her being split open to deliver ill favored babes or even dying in childbirth. It would much sweeten the Queen's punishment for her blatant effronteries for one or all to befall her.

The Wolf shook himself irritably; he had allowed his focus to waver.

The sellsword, it seemed, had added another layer of pitfalls, these culled from the Wolf's own longing to see the Queen's reign cut short.

"Though this be buffoonery, there is a brilliance in it," the Wolf intoned with begrudging respect, unaware he'd spoken aloud.

"Did you hear something?" another voice rang out from the parapets.

The Wolf, tensing, went very still, not daring even to breathe. From the parapets, an archer had knocked an arrow to his bow and was scanning the horizon while his accompanying falconer hurled his raptor bird aloft. Two pairs of sharp eyes scanned the bare timberland surrounding the castle for several long moments, always overlooking a projection of bark that did not belong to its tree, until they relaxed their vigil. This did not summon relief from the Wolf, however, but rage clenched in a white hot fist.

_Idiot! You nearly let them detect you!_

And, he belatedly realized, that had been far from his only mistake that day. That leap amidst the branches which he had miscalculated, nearly sending him hurtling to the ground. How he'd allowed his desire for the kill to chase away his focus and crowd out his wits. And, how he'd come within a hairsbreadth of alerting he guards to his presence.

_Have I.. .have I...?_

He could not finish the thought; even the possibility that he had met a foe he could not defeat in this churl, that the skills he had mastered had deserted him and that he would meet failure, cut him more deeply than any implement of death he'd ever wielded. A chill rippled at his heart, suddenly making him very nearly afraid.

Yet, his fear was dispelled when he noticed something else.

He was not the only one who was afraid_._

The Queen, he saw, wrung her hands together and chewed at the corner of her lip when she believed no one was looking.

The sellsword was frequently glancing over his shoulder, trying to make the show of wariness appear casual by coupling it with stretches and turns designed to loosen cramped muscles.

And, whenever the pair embraced, he could discern a desperation which rose about them like plumes of smoke.

What's more, these were not the only signs of fear he detected.

The armored guards began to look over their shoulders more frequently and to thump the pommels of their lances on the stone floor while anxiousness caused the hidden guards to twitch in a fashion that jeopardized their concealment.

Whenever the Queen's brother left his post in the hands of another and reclined in bed with his bumpkin bride, stuffing chocolates into her mouth and caressing her toned form, his gaze always shifted towards the door as if expecting catastrophe to ensue during his brief respite.

The habitual pacing of the Queen's sister had also grown more frantic and was now accompanied by her irritably tearing at her own hair.

The dour youth, when his face was not buried in some tome or another, seemed to become even grimmer with every passing hour.

The blithe confidence he'd seen earlier was an illusion; less of a trap for him than a facade that the couple had devised for each other.

And, like any facade, it could be exposed.

The Wolf simply had to find out how and, if the ingresses he'd spied early did indeed prove impregnable, then others would be discovered.

He only had to maintain his patient vigil.

He _did_ however, promise himself one small indulgence to reward himself for his pains and labors_._

He would not settle for killing only the Queen; he would kill the sellsword as well, regardless of whether or not the churl's blood put so much as a scrap of gold or silver in the Wolf's pocket.


	7. Chapter 6

The afternoon air quivered with tension. After two narrowly averted attempts on the queen's life, and fruitless searching for the culprit, tempers were flaring and frustration grated upon everyones nerves. With no leads to follow, everyone had resorted to alleivating their aggravation as best they could. The training field was overflowing with combatants.  
The knights were running routine drills on their mounts, their Commander shouting out formations and orders as if there were a real battle ensuing. Having spent more than half his life in the saddle, he was well aware that even the best cavaliers could have difficulty riding in tandem, but this particular day had already worn away his patience and had him near to tearing out his hair. His second-in-command, who was among the riders, kept on breaking formation prematurely, angling his horse in the opposite direction of where he was expected to go and had come close to dismembering the riders alongside him so often that all now gave him a wide berth. The commander had already berated his distracted subordinate many times, and was now perilously close to losing his temper.

"Kieran! What's the matter with you? This is much farther beyond your usual infractions… Pay attention! You'll break your horse's neck if you take that turn any more sharply!"

But the knight's eyes still wandered towards the threesome at the doorway watching them, not so much paying attention to the Queen or the young brunette, but the one standing off to the side apart from them. Book in hand, nose in book, but even the knight knew it was a deception. The mage feigned indifference, but the knight could also see that _his_ lady was avoiding the both of them at all cost, and he could also see that this was affecting the mage just as much as it did he.

"Kieran! Pay attention!"

The teal haired halberdier looked up from her lancework as she heard her fiancé yell out once again. She could sense his growing stress - which, she feared, was becoming overwhelming - and felt deeply concerned for him. Was it not enough that his Queen's, his _sister's_ life was in danger? Why did he have to deal with these simple annoyances? He was always so worried about the health of his sisters, so much so as of late that she worried for his own wellbeing…

The mercenary Commander had taken a wooden trainer out with him today. The lightweight wooden sword was something he had not trained with in quite a while, something used only to practice form, not build strength. But his fiancée had told him of the duels, with their fancy rules and standards, that he would be expected to partake of soon after their union. At times, they were purely for recreation while, on occasion, they were also used to settle differences. He'd been informed that form, grace and finesse would be something both vitally important and critically judged upon, counting for more in such a contest than sheer strength. He took the practice blade to a tree trunk for a while, when he was joined by the Queen's sister. He turned to face her, curious as to her intent as she approached. As she reached him, she raised her blade in what he recognized from his fiancée's instruction as an salute performed before a duel. He answered the salute and took up a stance against her.

She swung furiously, and his time was spent parrying her blows. The mercenary commander had seen the Queen's sister in battle before, commanding a mastery of form, grace and finesse that doubtless won her many of these duels. Yet now, she commanded nothing of the sort. Her attacks were wild, choppy, predictable and almost clumsy. She just needed someone to swing at. There was hardly any breathing time between the slashing of their two trainers, as he was only concerned with not bruising a rib, and she finding that to be her only intent. Finally, there was a lull in their exchange, and he heard her speak.

"What is _wrong_ with your tactician?"

He had been in the midst of a counter, but her unexpected question caused him to jerk to a halt. Taking advantage of the opening, she swung her trainer at his single shoulder pauldron with all the form and grace of a drunk berserker with a club. Several others in the practice grounds looked up at the noise, but returned to their own training as they soothed their frayed nerves that it was only training; there would be no attacks today.

The Commander deflected a second swing from the lady with his blade. "What did he do?"

She answered indirectly. "He's a stammering dolt."

His wooden blade cut across her, and she retreated a pace. There was subtle resentment in the blue eyes of the Commander. "Those are some pretty powerful words to be using against someone who just saved the Queen's life."

Her sword parried his next swing. "You don't know what happened after that."

He took a step back, into his original position. "Tell me. What did he do?"

She did not reply, but instead took another swing that he easily deflected. "What did _you_ do?"

She lashed out violently. "I followed him!" she seemed enraged at her own stupidity. She punctuated her hot words with a blow from her trainer, which slid through a gap in the Commander's defenses. "I kissed him!" her blade landed a hard blow on his chest. He winced and pressed a hand over the forming bruise, gritting his teeth. He heard her blade whistle in the air in another attack, but he wasn't beaten. He advanced into her swing and let the trainer once against bounce off his armor, and she reeled back as he swung close, much too close.

"Wouldn't that make things _your_ fault?"

She scrambled for footing. "He—he…"

The Commander feinted to his right, "You're a brilliant tactician, Lucia," but struck from the left, tearing her blade and hand asunder, "But Soren is a part of my family. He will always hold precedence over you."

The Lady watched as her blade hit the ground several feet away, and looked to the man whom had defeated her with a glare on her face. He did not shrink away. She retrieved her trainer and turned to find another to spar.

The Commander rested the tip of his practice blade on the ground and turned quickly about to see if anyone had been watching – had been listening, rather – to that match. He let out a wince as his bruised ribs reminded him not to move in that fashion, but was assured that no one had seen. He turned back around slowly, and jumped as he met the crimson stare of his Shadow. Shock caused his jaw to slacken, but stopped his voice. The small mage appeared to study him a moment, an expression of curious admiration on his face, before tilting his head upwards to meet the eyes of the Commander fully.

The heal staff was unnoticed until the Commander felt its warm glow staunched the pain of his injury. He finally found his voice. "Where did you come from?" the question was simple, if not slightly dense, but it was characteristic of the Commander. His Shadow provided an answer quickly through obvious, if not equally dense, measures.

"I was watching."

"Oh." The Commander glanced towards the doorway to see his sister and fiancée in pleasant conversation and looking not at all as inquisitive as the mage before him did, and he faintly wondered… "Did you hear—"

"Most of it, yes."

"…I meant it, you know."

There was a pause, during which the mage cast his eyes to the ground and took a half pace backwards.

"Soren?" the Commander stretched out his hand, but the other retreated fully now, not glancing back as he departed from the training grounds.

-

The mage wandered aimlessly, with neither purpose nor destination. He knew there was work to be done, knew too that the tome in his hands was a distraction that he could not afford, but his thoughts were also a distraction, and he wanted only to escape them.

Magic was not an indoor art – but even so, he was not returning to the training grounds. He hardly cared where his feet carried him as long as it was away from the training yard. Away from _her_. And, the further away, the better… and he found himself passing under the archway of the castle and into the field beyond. He reached the tree line and halted, letting a resigned sigh pass his lips as he knew not to go further. He closed his eyes and fingered the aged book in his hands, taking comfort from its familiarity. The spell was one he'd mastered ages ago, of simple but dependable use, one in nature complex to those not educated in the arcane arts but basic to he, who knew nearly every rune of its formulation. There was nothing new to learn from this tome. Perhaps that was why he'd chosen it, of all the powerful and untried relics available in the royal archives, to practice with today.

His mind wandered as he whispered the spell to life.

He'd seen the fight between his Commander and the Lady. He'd heard every word.

A gentle breeze stirred around him as a thought spoken aloud broke the rhythm of the runes rolling from his tongue. "Family…"

He had not intended to give voice to the thought. But it was a thought as gentle and warm as the breeze he commanded, and he controlled the thought as well. He raised his fingers to his lips as he spoke again, wanting to feel the thought manifest itself as living, spoken, true word. "Family…"

The idea was foreign, but not unnervingly so. Ten years ago he would've never let an idea so impossible live even more than a moment in his own mind, but its probability now was a needed comfort. So too was the comfort of the familiarity of the tome - this tome in particular - in his hands. And, it was only in the midst of these comforts that he allowed his mind to ponder more disconcerting thoughts.

If the Commander was family, then so too would be the Queen. He pursed his lips in quiet rumination, and the breeze stopped.

The Queen was a wonderful woman, for the Commander was deeply in love with her. And, ordinarily, the Commander's happiness would be all that he concerned himself with. But, nothing, it seemed, had been ordinary as of late.

The company would fall to the hands of the Deputy Commander, reason stated. What would become of him was also clear – the Commander would not have pressed so hard for his sister and his tactician to come if he had not been planning on letting them stay close. He'd explicitly wanted them to be with him on the night of the announcement, so they could share in what would be, the mage was sure, the start of an entire new life. His place in the world had changed but… as long as he could find comfort in the place he stood, he would be all right.

So the Queen would be family. He looked back to the tome in his hands and turned the page, whispering only a slightly different variation of the spell, causing the wind to come from his back, and not his left. He almost felt a caress in it as it brushed his cheek… and his mood darkened as he realized who it reminded him of.

His thoughts never escaped her. Had this, too, been what she wanted? Her strategy was well devised if that were the case, for it was both effective and disconcerting.

He'd figured a few things out in his time spent with his thoughts of her. He wasn't good with his emotions, and by letting them have free reign _once_ he'd caused a tumult of problems for himself. He'd been slapped, verbally berated, ousted from his place as the Commander's trusted advisor, barred from all further strategy meetings, and lost irreplaceable pieces of himself, all for one evening of passionate joy and little snippets of affection since.

_It was worth it._

"No!" he cursed the small part of his mind that had thought that, and the wind around him grew choppy and violent. It was not worth it. He should not have come. He should never have come, not to the coronation party, not to the Yuletide party, not to the celebration last night. Things would have been better, much better that way…

And why did he have to care?

These thoughts pouring out of him stemmed from emotions he should've known better to delude himself with. Logic and rationality had dictated all his previous actions, why had he let that change?

_She looked at me like no one ever had before…_

But it didn't matter. That moment had passed, and she despised him now.

He knew he'd lost control of the spell, but he did not care, and he shouted the word of release at the top of his lungs, only to have the wind carry it off. The spell veered sharply to the left, raking leaves off the ground as it whistled through the forest, spurring a burst of startled bird cries, a ripple of motion and a human scream.

The last shocked him so utterly that all previous thoughts were forgotten. He turned and peered into the sparse shadows cast by the still largely bare branches overhead. For a moment, he could see only what looked like a large piece of bark, perhaps ripped free by the wind, but then he spied two gleaming pools of gray peering out from the "bark." A pair of eyes, as cold and hard as bits of steel. The "bark," now that Soren saw it more clearly, was in truth a cloak of coarse, rough fabric colored deep brown with splotches of mossy green which rippled slowly as the body beneath began disentangling itself from the impact of the fall. A trickle of crimson leaked from somewhere in the camoflague and, as the man shifted to try and see what had toppled him, the mage could see that blood was leaking from the man's jaw. He saw too the rest of the face, and knew this man in an instant. His stomach twisted. _Assassin_.

A flash of light, and the man vanished.


	8. Chapter 7

_As the blur of crimson shadows and shining white faded away, the Wolf found himself sprawled beneath his camouflaged cloak. His skull pounded and his mind thoughts drifted like petals on the wind, but he dimly recalled falling and a wall of ivory charging to meet him, followed by an impact of white fire that crushed the breath from his lungs. The world had begun to spin in a maddening frenzy, which sent the Wolf's already roiling stomach convulsing anew. The Wolf gnashed his fangs together to silence a bellow as rocks hidden under the thin carpet of snow beneath him stabbed into his flesh like the teeth of some immense carnivore , ready to chew him to bits. Blood oozed from a wound in his side, where an especially sharp rock which he'd encountered during his descent had given him a deep gash. A metallic taste was upon his tongue as well, life fluids leaking from his mouth to stain his jaw in a grisly shade of red. His still spinning vision blurred slightly, shadowy afterimages now wavering in his sight while the ground seemed too far away one moment and much too close the next. His forelimbs felt distant and sluggish while his hind limps were strewn behind him in a nerveless tangle._

The Wolf writhed in pain as icy flames seared away his armor of patient cunning and stoked a new fire within his breast. A fire of cold venom - so cold that it burned and a drop of which would send even the mightiest of creatures into their death throes - crackled to life in his chest and now dripped like ichor from fangs as merciless as a venin blade; and, no less deadly.

And thus, the Wolf was shed; and, in its place, was the Serpent.

The Serpent slithered across the melting snow, its coils rippling over the slush with the power of its deadly muscles...and the even deadlier power of the Serpent's anger.

Twice now, he had been spied by the upstart Queen's underlings, and this latest exposure had once more forced the Serpent to slink away in defeat.

And, to add insult to injury, this latest indignity came at the hands of the same underling who had thwarted the Serpent's second attempt at the delivering the Queen's death stroke.

The dour faced youth with the crimson eyes.

And, indeed, the Serpent's vision had turned crimson as well. Splotches of red danced balefully in the Serpent's vision, which glared back at the youth with nigh-feral hatred. Frozen fire blazed with ever greater intensity beneath the Serpent's scales, his venom boiling with outrage and eagerness for revenge.

No one slighted the Serpent thus and lived.

Still, a trace of the Wolf's prudence remained to him. If the dour faced youth was even half as quick witted as his previous violation had suggested, then he had surely retreated to the castle by now. Crawling on his belly and with his vision now as warped as the Queen's impending marriage, the Serpent could not hope to overtake the dour youth.

And, even if he could catch the youth, attacking him would have been suicide.

The Serpent, when he was the wolf, had barely noticed when the dour youth had wandered close to the Wolf's chosen vantage point. The Wolf's camouflage was immaculate; even the sharp eyes of the Crimean Castle Guard's archers and falcons could not distinguish Wolf from tree or sky. The Wolf had grappled with the puzzle of the castle's bolstered defenses and, though not close to a solution, the awareness of how the upstart Queen trembled in her new armor had left him with no doubt that his quarry's life would soon be in the palm of his hand.

The dour youth, however, blew away the Wolf's newly regained confidence...literally.

The Serpent had encountered many mages during the course of his bloody career; some had been his clients and others had been his victims. Thus, the Wolf had easily recognized that the mage was casting a Wind spell. He had felt the air stir around him, causing the Wolf's skin to ripple, the half-formed leaves to rustle, clouds of powder to billow into the air and the castle pennants to snap at the sky like small dragons.

The Wolf had felt that spell so often - and had been on the receiving end from time to time - but the spell was not directed at him and he had been well above its range. So, he had paid it no heed.

And, he had soon regretted it.

The wind had gained in force; so rapidly that, by the time the Wolf had even noticed, he was, much to his astonishment, being buffeted by a veritable hurricane. The wind, now shrieking like the cries of the damned, seared his ears while the gusts tore at his clothing, as is seeking to reach the flesh beneath and flay it from his bones.

And, indeed, that might very well have happened if he had been the spell's target.

The branch upon which the Wolf had alighted began to tremble, and soon to sway violently in the gale. Patches of bark were torn free and carried away, and even the mighty trunk seemed to shudder under the onslaught. The Wolf realized, belatedly, that this small mage possessed surprising power -

frightening_power - to be able to conjure, with a simple Wind tome, a force that most of the arcane would require a Tornado tome to summon._

And, the small mage wasn't finished yet.

As much as the wind was sent forth in the overwhelming gales, so too was it drawn in by the mage. Even the very air in the Wolf's lungs seemed to fountain out of him in reply to the arcane summons. The Wolf's vision had blurred and his focus had wavered as his lungs shrieked for the air, which no amount of inhalation could reclaim. His lungs were soon ablaze and, his grip going slack, an errant blast of wind magic had sent him hurtling to the ground. After the agonizing burning of near-suffocation, the cold ice he had landed in struck him like a bolt of lightning.

But, more chilling than the ice's cold embrace, and more searing than the pain in his flaming lungs and his battered body, was the dour youth's crimson eyes meeting his in mingled surprise and recognition. The boy, clearly, had sensed that the Serpent was an intruder, but what else had those eerily colored eyes discerned?

How much did he see? How much will he reveal to the others?

Neither of these were questions that the Serpent could answer, and the cold venom in his veins boiled all the more with the vexation of it. Indeed, this entire affair had been nothing

but_vexation! Listening to his client's endless tirades over the Queen's unfitness to occupy the throne, watching her and the common-born sellsword's nauseating flirtations and hearing the announcement of their engagement, bearing witness to the repugnant courtship between the Queen's brother and the bumpkin halberdier, observing the lover's quarrel between the dour youth and the Queen's sister, suffering through the humiliation of his quarry being snatched from his grasp - not one, but twice - and, the gravest of insults, his skills seeming to desert him as he blundered into obvious pitfalls._

The icy blaze burned brighter and taller; the searing heat of murderous rage intertwining flawlessly with frigid hatred. And, the Serpent fueled it with the promise of eventual satiation and a balm for his wounded pride.

Both would come in blood; the Serpent would avenge himself over a banquet of carnage.

It was no longer a question of who the Serpent would kill, but rather a question of who the Serpent would

not_kill._

The Queen, he'd already been assigned to kill; and, he had vowed that her lowborn fiancé would share her fate. Perhaps, so too, would the dour youth? Perhaps the Queen's siblings and the bumpkin who was her would-be in-law as well?

The Serpent could not guess how much blood would be required to assuage these endless affronts; but he did know that, if he were to attempt such now, the only assured death would be his own. If the dour youth did, in fact, alert the guards immediately, then retreat was his only option.

Though he still retained the Warp Powder, he knew returning to his client's castle for treatment would see him given the sort of "treatment" that a rapid dog could expect.

No amount of grim portents regarding the Queen's future actions would induce Ludveck to be merciful once again.

Thus, the Serpent slithered, his coils rippling furiously as he propelled himself over roots and rocks and through meager drifts of snow, stained red by the blood trailing behind him. The Serpent used his camouflaged cloak, which had survived the fall, to hide his presence. However, the expected pursuit, oddly enough, did not come. But, the Serpent knew better than to think that this reprieve represented an overdue reversal of fortune. He recalled all too well that the sellsword had arranged the castle's defenses both to goad and to entrap; and, such a flaw was just as likely to be a lure as an opportunity. The Serpent had come perilously close to being ensnared too often already; the next time he approached the castle, it would be on his terms and not the sellsword's.

Once he had slithered a good distance from the castle, he chanced upon a robed figure knelt upon the ground in meditation. An ornate Mend staff lay across his lap.

The Serpent smiled; of the numerous victims he's sought and slain over his career, priests were often easy pickings. And, this one's Mend staff was presently worth its weight in gold to the half-crippled Serpent.

Under normal circumstances, the Serpent would have simply slithered up behind the man, rammed a dagger through his heart and taken the staff. However, given his newly limited mobility, he decided upon a different course.

Though the Yuletide had ended, the spirit of generosity was slow to depart at this time of year.

Slithering up to the meditating holy man, he hissed "Please, oh good sir. My legs have failed me, and I fear I will not live to see this glorious, new season without your aid."

The priest looked up from his prayers and, spying the Serpent's seeming plight, offered a benign smile. With neither a word nor hesitation, the priest brought the head of his staff to hover over the Serpent's savaged legs. The staff glowed with a benevolent light and, in an instant, the Serpent had risen to his full height again.

The spirit of generosity, it would seem, stole over the Serpent as well; for he decided to give to the priest that which the Serpent would never give to another.

A swift and painless death.

After all,_ the Serpent mused as he admired the red tears wept by his blade, _'Tis the season.

As the priest's corpse was left to cool in the snow, his throat expertly slashed and his eyes staring blankly at the heavens, the only trace of his killer was an echo of a sardonic sing-song voice chanting "Fa la la la la la la la la la."

"Who's there?"

The mage turned about at the fearful voice, to see the Commander's sister at the other end of the hall. She relaxed upon viewing his face, and trotted towards him.

"Oh, Soren. I thought you were… wear something other than black every now and again, won't you?" the girl scolded. She then took pause and studied his face for a moment. It was uncharacteristically… blank.

"Soren? Are you all right?"

"I'm tired."

This was not the mage's usual reply, but perhaps he knew he couldn't get away with his standard "of course". He hadn't gotten much sleep the past few nights, and the dark rings under his eyes were a stark contrast to his drained pallor. The girl gently took hold of the mage's arm, and was shocked when he gave no protest.

"You look like you're about to fall over. Come on," she gave his sleeve a gentle tug, and he followed as she guided him to his room.

_Something should be said… _

"Mist, I –"

"Here we are!" she led him over to his bed and he sat, plucking at the pages of his tome.

She watched him a moment. She'd never seen him so unsettled. His face was pinched in an expression of unease, and his fingers darted around nervously. His shoulders were drawn close to his neck, tensed. She pulled the tome from his grasp and rested it on his writing desk. He watched her as she turned back towards the door and left.

The mage gave a small, resigned sigh and leaned forward slightly to guide his boots off his feet. He rested them near the head of the bed and fell onto his side, closing his eyes.

_I… need to say something… _

It was this revelation that urged him to open his eyes again and look around, for after it he had a sudden sense that he was being watched. But who wasn't, in this place? "Noble" politics… everything hinged on spies, rumors, secret networks, covert plans and hidden traps…

His mind wandered briefly to the piles of paper on his desk, the outline of strategies for his bait-and-switch plan that he hadn't found the time to take to _her._He doubted her trust in him now, and he didn't want to confirm his suspicions.

He toyed briefly with a sharp bit of a feather that poked through his pillow, before pulling it from the fabric and tossing it gently into the air. His eyes tracked the solitary vessel as it sailed to the ground. He could whisper a spell and toss it up again, but it wasn't as if he hadn't practiced that day…

Nothing, it seemed, was distraction enough.

He shuddered slightly and looked out the window, to the field beyond the castle walls, the line of trees where he had been only half a mark before…

He gave a start as his door creaked open, and whirled around to meet the young girl's gaze. He had thought that she wasn't going to return.

"You like your tea black, don't you?" she asked, carrying a small tray over and nudging a cup toward him. He sat up, looking faintly perplexed, but he nodded. He took the cup and sipped from it, then closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He heard a faint clinking as she mixed sugar into her glass, but it quickly subsided.

The tea had a light, flowery taste, bordering on medicinal, and a trace of bitterness that he liked. He opened his eyes and regarded her. "What's in it?"

"Lavender," she replied. He nodded once. A relaxing herb. She cared.

And yet, there was still something that bothered him. He opened his mouth to speak, but clamped it shut at once, looking aside.

"…there's a rumor going around that… I mean, about you and Lucia."

He glanced up into her face and saw the question in her eyes. "…a kiss, only," he breathed, voice smaller than a whisper. She, instead of nodding in understanding, only seemed to grow more confused.

"You?"

He shifted uncomfortably and took a sip from his cup to avoid making a reply.

"You've… changed a lot."

He looked up again, and she took the gesture as permission to continue.

"There were… people… around who said that you were incapable of love."

He wouldn't let himself be deluded. "_That…_that was not love."

"No?"

"No."

The small laugh that escaped her lips was the last thing he expected. "_Soren_," she said, her voice taking on a tone he associated with the motherly knight they'd left at the base. "Soren, I know you better than that. You used to be so cold… to see you like this now… something's changed. You," she smiled slightly, "I believe, are lovesick."

Perhaps it was a good thing that she didn't know what had really happened to shake him so badly. His lips turned downwards, and he tilted his head to the left. She smiled.

"You don't like that idea?"

"It is not possible."

"Not possible that you are in love, or that Lucia loves you in return?"

He tensed slightly once again. She looked at him somewhat sympathetically. "She does."

He gave no vocal reply, but a questioning glance said everything she needed to know. "I hear a lot more than I get credit for, you know. I'm sure you do, too, but you don't wander around to hear things like I do," she said. She paused. "She likes you."

He turned to the window again. "The feeling is not… mutual," he murmured. "I am not in love."

She smiled knowingly and stood, taking his empty cup from him. "…I see." She headed for the door, but paused before leaving. "Have I… ever told you that you're like another brother to me?" she asked. "I wouldn't… I would never lie to family, Soren." He stared at her skeptically, but she was soothed by the fact that he did not roll his eyes in disbelief or massage his temple in irritation.

"I sure can ramble on, can't I? You said you were tired. So get some rest, okay? You can't function without sleep!"

"Close the door."

She smiled and pulled the door silently shut.


	9. Chapter 8

The aqua haired woman, bowed with fatigue, scanned the leaves of parchment chaotically scattered across her desk. The newly devised plan to snare the assassin had proven nearly as untamable as the villian himself; for the plan, once seeming infallible, had somehow transformed into a myriad of convoluted details and complications which swam before her half-lidded eyes. The interwoven questions of how to make the decoy queen seem vulnerable enough for the assassin to strike, yet not so defenseless as to rouse the villian's suspicions, seemed as though to be lurking beneath the scattered parchment and daring her to challenge it.

To compound matters was the looming danger that the assassin would make another attempt before the mess of a trap was baited and set. And, to top it all off, her would-be partner had been avoiding her like the plague. Given the incident between him and her would-be suitor - who, incidently, was also avoiding her - she could not be certain if this was cause for anger or relief. Either way, it could not have happened at a worse time.

She bent close to her work, immersed in how best to hide the web she intended for the assassin to fly into, and did not hear the visitor until he was at her shoulder.

"Lucia."

His voice nearly made her jump, jolting her from her musings and back to reality. She turned to meet his grim visage. "Brother," she greeted, somewhat absently.

"Lucia, I need to talk to you."

His brow was furrowed with displeasure, and a hint of concern that she alone could discern. His voice had also taken on an edge of severity, which gave her a sickening presentiment about what he wished to discuss. She set down her quill and turned in her chair to face her brother, her fingers interwoven over one knee and her chin tilted up, much like a child who realized that a stern reprimand was forthcoming.

"What is it that you're trying to do?" he asked, face pulled into a deep frown.

"I'm trying to get this plan sorted out, Geoff—"

"Not that. What is it you're trying to accomplish by leading Kieran on like this?"

She sucked in a deep breath, and her eyes narrowed suddenly. How had he come to know about…?

"Lucia," his told was scolding. "Kieran is my second in command. Our queen and liege is under threat by an assassin, and in order to protect her, I need my men to be alert and focussed on their duties. The last thing I need if for him to be preoccupied by whatever scheme you've roped him into, and him complaining to me about it."

"It's not like—"

"And, as for Soren," her brother interjected, cutting her off. "If he is orchestrating the plan to stop this assassin, than we need him to be focused on accomplishing that goal. Mist visited him just now, and she tells me that he's a twitching bundle of nerves! It's one thing for Kieran to yell aloud whatever is one his mind to whoever's within earshot; I practically expect it from him. But, Soren...just what is it you're trying to do? And, for that matter, why are you doing this _now_ of all times?!"

"I—"

"Lucia, I don't know what's going on between you, Soren and Kieran. But, right now, I can't afford for it to be going on. Whatever game it is you're playing to ensure...I don't know, whatever it is you're after, has to stop. We must protect our queen from this assassin, and we can't do that if we're all at each other's throats!"

"I know that!" she finally cut in. "I'm just trying to—"

"Lucia! Why do knights fight?"

"What? Ah...to protect our liege and the people, and to uphold the honor of the knights, our families and the realm." Maybe she was just overtired, or maybe the strain of these long nights had done something to her eyes. But, whatever the reason, she suddenly felt as if it was no longer her brother lecturing her, but her late father...

"Lucia, there is no honor in what you are doing now." Her brother finished, the frown still deeply etched in his face. "So stop."

She fell silent and turned her face away from him. She heard his sigh a few moments later. "You don't need to be causing this sort of trouble, Lucia. Not with everything else that's going on."

"…aren't you supposed to be on patrol, or something?"

He took the hint in her voice and turned to the door. "All right, I'll go. But you remember what I've said. And don't stay up too late working, all right?"

"…all right."

-

He awoke feeling more exhausted than he had upon falling asleep. He'd been dreaming about winter – chilling blasts of white wind that stung the eyes and burned the flesh; wet, cold and unyielding. The dream had been so vivid that when his eyes flew open he'd been blinded by the darkness, and the warm folds of the blanket around him were unfamiliar. He sat up, slowly disentangling himself from the sheets.

She'd been in the dream, as well. She had seemed ethereal and distant as people often do in dreams, but at the same time he'd gotten the sense that she had been the source of the ice that he had grown to loathe.

Sitting in the darkness did no good. His voice caused the night to warp, then vanish suddenly as flames burst to life in his palm. He located his candle and flicked a spark that caught and ignited. The original flame died as he lifted the candle and walked across the room to his desk. Willowy fingers gently shuffled papers around until he found the summary of the plan he'd been working on. He scanned the writing a few times to find where he had left off, before bathing his quill in the pool of ink and preparing to write.

His door flew open with a resonant bang that caused him to leap from his chair. His elbow smacked into his inkwell and a shower of black rained puddles on the floor. The blue clad knight appeared as startled as he.

"Soren, you're awake?"

"Yes," the mage responded, rather flatly. The Commander of the Royal Knights lowered his lance, looking perplexed.

"I… er."

The mage turned and studied the spreading pool of ink on the floor, and moved his foot out of range. "So, you're on patrol tonight, General Geoffrey?"

"I… saw the light from under your door. I thought something was amiss, I apologize."

The mage sighed and found a cloth to dab up the spill with. Oddly, the knight did not leave.

"What were you doing?"

The question caught him off guard. "…working on our little trap, at your sister's request," he replied after a pause.

"She's doing the same," the knight said quickly. "Says she can't sleep. She's working right now."

The mage looked up, thinking briefly. Perhaps things would go smoother if he took the Lady's brother with him to deliver the report. He placed the now sodden rag on his desk and picked up the paper.

"This needs to be delivered to her," he said, folding the parchment carefully and going out the door. The knight followed him, as he knew he would.

Sure enough, the flicker of candlelight was visible under her door. The mage knocked once, and, at her reply, entered. She looked surprised to be in his presence, and seemed on the verge of speaking, but saw her brother and stopped.

"Your report, Lady Lucia."

She took the paper from him and opened it, scanning the main points quickly. "Excellent, thank you." She looked up at the sound of retreating footsteps, and found her brother absent and the mage still there. She pursed her lips slightly and tried to appear focused on the paper, not knowing if she wanted him here or not. His help was needed, for sure, but his company…

"You're welcome," his delayed reply brought her focus back to the present. His eyes flicked over to her desk, and she nodded her assent. As he came over, she pointed out her report. He only got a couple of lines in before finding something wrong.

"Lucia," his expression was as hard as ice, "You will _not_ be the bait for the assassin."

"Come now, Soren. If we do not have someone who knows the plan inside and out to be the double, then how—"

"Someone else. Not you."

"Sor—" he cut into her protest.

"Do you realize what this is? We are trying to lure in and capture a highly trained killer, who was hand-picked to assassinate the queen herself! There are risks—"

"I'm aware of that—"

"And if this goes wrong? If you are killed? Think of your family! What would Elincia do? And your brother?"

"I remind you that this was _your_ pla—"

"I never intended for it to be you! If I lost you, then I—" he stopped the sentence abruptly, but she had heard. Her jaw dropped slightly as she waited for words to come, but before she could think, he was speaking again.

"Not, not that I—I'm saying that—" his thoughts, and his fears, all seemed to fountain out of him in a rush; his tongue unable to give them voice fast enough. He gave a slight pause to compose himself. "There are…" he halted, and moistened his lips with his tongue as he decided whether or not to voice this thought, "There are people who need you, Lucia. And this assassin…" he trailed off, and she saw a shadow cross his face, bearing with it an emotion she'd never seen him wear before: fear.

"Soren, I am perfectly capable—"

"I saw him, Lucia."

The words had been so soft that she wondered for a moment if she had imagined them. "…what?"

"I saw him." If the mage was shaken before, he now looked very nearly terrified as he repeated his words, unable to meet her gaze. She cleared her throat softly.

"Where?" she asked. "When?" Suddenly, she had a thousand questions for him to answer. "What happened?"

"I went outside the castle to train, and I was thinking about… I was thinking, and I sent a spell into the woods, and he just… fell out of a tree."

"You didn't see him before that? You weren't aiming at him?"

"It was an accident…"

"It was luck. Soren! You've seen him! We can—" her excitement leapt suddenly, and she grabbed for a piece of paper to jot notes upon. "What did he look like?" she asked, already scribbling away. "Beorc? Laguz? You said "he", didn't you?"

"I—"

"Come on, I'm ready!" she looked up at him, quill poised to write.

He knew he'd needed to tell someone, hadn't he? "Y-yes, he. About… about as tall as Ike, I'd say. And very dark, his hair was, I mean. Shoulder length. Um… eyes cold, like steel, or ice…"

She looked up as his halting sentences stopped. His eyes bore a distant, frightened look, and she had the sudden sense that standing before her was not her partner, but a scared child. "…Soren?"

"He was… he'd been watching the castle. He probably saw me coming out. Ashera, what if he had…" the mage shuddered involuntarily. "He looked… he didn't even look human. It was as if I had attacked a twisted creature of nature, or… or… a-and when he turned, my stomach lurched so violently… and I knew, he wasn't human, he was—he was a twisted creature, a manifest of sin, a demon…" the mage slowly raised his hand and pressed his palm to the Brand on the center of his head, "_cursed one._"

"…he bore the mark?" she asked, her eyes widening in this revelation. He was jarred back to reality, but the fear did not leave his eyes.

"Y-you…?" his voice was smaller than a whisper, and his pallor lightened a shade or two. She looked down.

"After the Coronation Ball. I just… I wanted to know."

He fled the room suddenly.


	10. Chapter 9

"I've made a mistake."

The Commander arched an eyebrow at hearing this confession. The visit from the Queen's sister - his future sister-in-law - had been quite unexpected, but he had welcomed her in without objection. At first, he had assumed that the Lady wanted to speak to him about the plan which had been devised to ensure the Queen's protection from the lurking assassin. However, he was rather perplexed when she informed him that this was not the case. And, when he'd heard just _who_ she wanted to speak about, he'd been deeply concerned – and slightly intrigued.

The mage had been studiously avoiding the Commander - and, seemingly, everybody else - ever since that horrible misunderstanding during the New Year's celebration. He had been worried about the mage ever since but, perhaps, he might finally get some answers.

"A mistake?" he asked. She nodded curtly.

"Ike," she addressed him, her tone almost as dour as the man of whom they spoke, "what do you know of Soren's bloodline?"

The Commander tensed suddenly, for he remembered all too well just how delicate - and painful - a matter this was. "I… I'm not at liberty to say."

"The Mark on his forehead. Do you… know its significance?"

Ike did indeed; for the mage had told him some time ago. And, the Commander could clearly recall just how terrified his Shadow had been that the confession would see him turned out of yet another home. Still, the mage had somehow been willing to take a grave risk by revealing his darkest secret to a man he believed - correctly, the Commander hoped - could be trusted. Thus, he was more than a bit reluctant to share what the mage had revealed.

Yet, at the same time, he found himself wondering just why the Lady was asking.

The Commander remained thoughtfully silent for a moment while he probed her features. Her posture was slumped with weariness, and a good deal of smudge had gathered beneath her eyes; though, this was hardly surprising with the ongoing hunt for the assassin. However, her gaze was not bleary with exhaustion, but sharp and attentive. There was also some underlying emotion that he had trouble identifying.

It almost looked as though... Lucia was worried. But, was she worried about Soren, as the Commander was? Or, was she worried about Soren that way that the mage had feared Ike would be upon learning the mage's bloodline; fearful and repulsed? Unable to tell, the Commander's reply was guarded.

"…I do," he conceded, his tone wary. "Why are you asking?"

"I found out what it means," she replied, all too aware that the Commander's gaze had hardened. "I looked it up in the Royal Archives, just after the Coronation Ball, and—"

"Soren is Soren," the Commander interrupted, a warning glare on his face, "And, he is no less a person than you or—"

"This isn't about that!" she snapped, cutting of his lecture. "I bear him no ill will over his heritage. But I…" she paused, as though needing to gather her courage, and then pressed on, "I told—"

The Commander seized her shoulders, his expression tight with alarm. "You what?!"

"I didn't understand the gravity of the situation at the time! Not until it was too late. I'd never seen that sort of prejudice! Sure, I'm well aware of the beorc-laguz tensions in much of Tellius, but this is Crimea! We have spent over three decades working to bridge the divide between the beorc and the laguz; and we have achieved greater successes than anyone ever believed was possible! I didn't think… not here, but last night, it came up between Soren and I…"

Her words degenerated into fretful stammering, and then faded to an anguished sigh as her head drooped into her upturned palms. He drew back, more than a bit startled by this outpouring of emotion from the normally unflappable swordsmaster. In watching Lucia tumble over her words, which had grown ever more discordant with fear and shame, the Commander discovered a bizarre echo of memory.

It was as though he was hearing Soren's confession all over again.

"I'd never seen him look so frightened…" Lucia finished, once her voice had returned.

"Soren's…," Ike began, his own voice proving elusive for a moment. "Soren has lived a very hard life. He's received a lot of hate, practically since he was born. And, since a lot of it was because people realized...what his Mark meant, he kept it a secret for a long time. I'm sure he was more than shocked to find out that you knew. It took a lot of courage for him just to tell me, his best - maybe his _only_ - friend. And, I promised not to tell anyone. Soren was very adamant about that. The possibility that someone besides myself knows… probably has him scared to death."

"Ike, I told Kieran."

The Commander frowned deeply. "Is Soren aware of that?"

"Kieran called him half-blood once, I don't think Soren thought anything of it at the time, but now… Ike, I'm sorry," she said, a clear note of pleading in her tone.

"It's not me you should apologize to."

"I know, but I don't know how I can—"

"I'm afraid I don't know, either. Soren's not someone who's easy to approach, much less reconcile with, I know. It took me years to gain his trust. But, it _is_ obvious that you care about him. That, ultimately, got him to open up to me, and it might work for you as well. Just trust that it'll work out. Give him some space for a while and, when he does come to you, that'll be a big step in the right direction. That's the best advice I have for you, though I wish I could do better."

She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a knock at the door. "Lord Ike! Your presence is requested in the council chamber!"

"The briefing about our plan to protect Queen Elincia," she breathed irritably, "how could I forget about a meeting that I arranged?" She hurried from the room to collect her supplies, almost bolting away from Ike, while the Commander headed to the council chamber with many new thoughts racing through his head.

-

"Lord Soren! Your presence is requested in the council chamber!"

He'd known that his solitude would not last forever, but it still seemed to have ended all too soon.

The mage glanced up from his huddle before the roaring hearth, though he remembered neither loading the fireplace with wood nor lighting the blaze. Most likely, he had hoped that the simple labor, the smell of the smoke and the hypnotic dance of the flames would serve to distract him from this latest torment in his long, sad life.

If that was plan, then it had failed miserably. He could no more banish the fear now roiling in his skull than he could the laguz portion of his blood.

When the fire failed to distract him, he'd begun to pace back and forth until it was a small wonder that he had not worn a hole into the floor. His thoughts were tumultuous, as evidenced by his outward manner. His hands wrung against one another until his skin felt raw and his robes were rumpled. His hair was disheveled; his crimson eyes were hot with tears. And, above all, his heart pounded with fear and despair.

Confessing his accursed bloodline to Ike had been, without a shadow of a doubt, the hardest thing Soren had ever done. Yet, despite the fear he remembered climbing his spine back then, he had never once thought that his trust in the Commander would prove to be misplaced... until now. Aside from the Commander's late father, Ike had been the only person the mage believed could be trusted with this darkest of secrets. And, that was the whole reason he'd divulged his secret to that one most trustworthy of persons in the first place.

But, was Ike so trustworthy after all?

The secret had not been kept, and others now knew; thus, he couldn't help but suspect…

Had Soren misread Ike? Was the Commander's honesty and forthrightness just an illusion, as it was with seemingly everybody else? Or, had it been carelessness rather than betrayal that had caused this dark secret to escape into the light?

The latter seemed likely, for the Commander had a certain reputation for letting his actions outpace his thinking.

And, whatever the cause, how long had those others known? He recalled that earlier instance of ridicule from the red haired knight. At the time, he'd thought the knight was just sputtering insults, but the barb and his bloodline were too closely tied to be mere coincidence.

But, he didn't have time to ponder these thoughts further. He was late for the meeting.

Somewhat distractedly, he made his way to the council chamber adjoining the throne room. Unlike the senate chamber, the council chamber was reserved for use by the Queen and her chosen circle for private discussions of greatest secrecy and urgency. Naturally, an assassin seeking the Queen's life qualified. As he reached the door and the flanking sentries admitted him, he observed that this room, like the rest of the castle, had undergone some alterations for security. The window panes had been replaced with stronger, tempered glass while the windows were firmly shut and latched. And, everyone in the room was armed.

As he finished his perusal of the room, his stomach dropped. Due to his tardiness, there was only one vacant seat remaining. The Queen was at the head of the table, her fiancé to her right. Alongside him was the Commander of the Royal Knights. The vacant seat, much to Soren's consternation, was flanked by the azure haired swordsmaster and the red clad knight. He silently cursed his misfortune as he crossed the threshold. But, his discomfiture was quickly noticed.

"Geoffrey, Lucia, could you slide down?"

The Lady looked woefully down at her maps and reports, which she'd already spread over the table before her and arranged with painstaking care. "Ike…" she began to protest.

"Soren always sits at my right side. Okay, Lucia?"

She looked as though she was about to protest but, curiously, her expression changed when she met the man's gaze. After a moment, it seemed as though some unspoken understanding passed between the two. She nodded and moved closer to the red knight, though neither seemed thrilled by the new seating arrangements. Her brother, seeming to give both a stern glance, helped to rearrange the parchments as the mage settled between the two Commanders.

Lucia was still getting her reports in order when she, almost tentatively, met the mage's gaze. "Soren, would you begin?"

"Of course," he nodded and stood to address the small gathering. "As I'm sure all of you are well aware, there have recently been two attempts made on Queen Elincia's life. Because both were made using the same implement, namely the Whispering Death poison, we are certain that both attempts were made by the same culprit. We also strongly suspect that this assassin will make a third attempt sooner or later."

"Do you have any idea whether this assassin is operating independently, or if he is acting at another's behest?" Geoffrey asked, interlacing his fingers meditatively.

"Most likely, the latter," Soren replied. "Whispering Death is very difficult to find, and incredibly expensive to produce. If this assassin is using it, he'd need a _very_ wealthy sponsor to have procured enough for the last two attempts."

"Do you have any suspects?" Ike asked, looking as though he was quite eager to voice his displeasure with those who sought his fiancée's life... with his blade.

"We have our suspicions, but nothing concrete. However, Lucia and I have been collaborating on a plan to stop the assassin, and to ensnare the one who hired him. We suspect that, having failed twice, the assassin's client is growing impatient; especially considering the expense he's surely put himself to thus far. The assassin is, I suspect, growing desperate to fulfill his mission before he finds himself targeted by his own client. After some thought, we have decided upon a plan that will play on that desperation while carrying minimal risk to the Queen. We will set up a trap to lure the assassin into take another shot at killing Elincia. This trap, however, will be focused on taking the assassin alive."

"WHAT?!" both Ike and Kieran bellowed, the two men vaulting to their feet in perfectly mirrored incredulity before the Queen and her brother urged both back into their seats.

"If we kill the assassin, his client can simply hire another," the mage pointed out. "Once the assassin is in custody, however, we will have the town criers announce that he has already chosen to name his client in exchange for leniency."

"So, the client will want to silence the assassin," Geoffrey observed. "The assassin will have no choice but to give us the name in order to save himself. A wise strategy."

"I agree," Ike seconded. "Good work, Soren."

The Lady gave Soren a sidelong smile, though the mage gave no response, while the red clad knight merely scowled.

"An imperative part of our plan, however, is that we have some means to lure in the assassin," he went on. "Lucia will be standing in for the queen as a decoy—"

Obvious distress crossed Elincia's features, and she looked quite eager to protest, but Lucia interjected.

"Please, Your Highness," the Lady beseeched her sister. "Whoever is acting as your decoy must be someone who knows the plan inside and out, and who can convincingly impersonate you. I am the logical choice."

The Queen looked as though she wanted to object nonetheless - perhaps even to forgo the decoy and take the risk herself - but the firmness of her sister's gaze caused the young queen to fall silent and nod sadly.

"I too had some... reservations... about this aspect of the plan," Soren admitted, his choice of words prompting a raised eyebrow from his friend, "but I must concede the point. Lady Lucia is the best choice to act as the Queen's double and, should the need arise, she has the best chance of subduing the assassin by herself."

"So, she snubs you once, and you decide to kill her?"

The mage paused at the red knight's interruption, a frown drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I am aware of the risk—"

"You just want to be rid of her, half-breed!" The knight rose to his feet and shouldered past the protesting Lucia, casting an intimidating shadow which seemed to devour the small mage.

Soren's breath caught in his throat, and involuntarily, his eyes jumped to the Commander. Ike's jaw was clenched tight and he was half way out of his chair before Geoffrey rose and spoke over the burgeoning tumult.

"Kieran, mind yourself," came the warning from the blue armored knight. Geoffrey's Second-in-Command turned to meet the piercing aqua gaze and, after a moment, reluctantly lowered himself back into his seat. But, he did not back down without one last, murmured slur. "_Sub-human_."

The Commander suddenly vaulted over the table with a shout of rage. In a single, fluid motion, he closed the gap and staggered Kieran with a punch to the jaw.

"Take that back! Take that back, you piece of-!"

The Commander's expletive was cut off when the red clad knight's fist rammed into his nose. Ike, blood leaking all over his face, regained his stance and managed to land one or two solid blows before the shock of the sudden violence wore off and the others reacted.

"Get off of me, low-born cur!" Kieran barked.

The Commander's rage seemed to intensify with that outburst, and his answering blow turned Kieran's eye purple. The Queen and her brother were on their feet, trying vainly to stop the brawl.

"Ike, stop! Stop it, please!"

"Stand down, Kieran! That is an order!"

The Queen began tugging on the cape of her fiancé, but he had the upper hand over both the queen and his opponent; and he was not about to stop without ensuring that the red knight was thoroughly punished for insulting the Commander's Shadow. The knight was yelling still but, against the monstrously strong Ike, seemed all bluster and no bite. Neither combatant had brought their weapons into play, but the others in the room feared that would change at any moment.

"Get off! What's the point in defending him? He's just a—" Whatever the knight was about to say was cut off as the Commander hit him squarely on the jaw once more, sending him reeling. The knight roared in pain and anger, and hurriedly flew back to the fight. The table was overturned, the reports and other parchments sent flying. The blue armored knight tried to interpose himself between the two combatants to stop their brawl, but was shoved aside almost immediately. The Queen wasn't having much success with her pleas either, as her words were drowned out by the report of both men's fists.

Suddenly, just as the Commander's blade was half way out of its sheath, a green light flared to life in the midst of their combat. Then, in an instant, a gale erupted from the green light which blew apart the quartet. They were briefly pinned against the stone walls for a stretching second before the gale died. They staggered back to their feet on opposite sides of the room, staring at the small mage who now gripped a tome.

"Stop it. Stop it." His features were livid as he spoke. "Just…" he trailed off.

Ike, briefly forgetting the combat, raced to Elincia's side to ensure that the spell hadn't harmed her. Once he saw that she was uninjured, his gaze turned back to Kieran and smoked with azure rage. Kieran's bruised eye, by this point, had swollen until he could no longer open it, but his remaining eye blazed with contempt.

"You're a pathetic, cowardly turncoat," he intoned, though whether he was speaking to Ike, Soren, Lucia or each and all could not be determined.

An almost feral growl rose from the throat of the Commander, but the Queen's hand seized his arm with astonishing strength, and he relented. Desperate to dispel the tensions before they became violent once more, the Lady tactician, who'd been silent thus far, intervened.

"Maybe it would be best if we reconvened later," she suggested. She watched as her brother dragged his fiery subordinate off, the latter still shooting scathing, one-eyed glares at the mage. Her sister stood by her fiancé, tightlipped and tense as she examined the cuts and bruises which bespangled his face. The mage still lingered alongside her, his normally cold features pinched with distress and more than a hint of fear.

"Soren?" The Queen had released the Commander, and he approached his friend.

"Go away."

He was startled by the mage's cold response. "Soren, what's the matter? What have I—" his words trailed off as the mage murmured softly.

"…betrayed me."

"Wh…what? Soren, I would never – what are you talking about?" The mage shot him an accusing glare, and Ike was struck by the obvious contempt - almost loathing - in his gaze. After a moment's astonishment, he recalled his conversation with Lucia, and he finally understood. "Soren," the Commander began in a low, serious tone, "I promise you, I never told a soul. I would never betray your confidence in me. I thought you knew that."

The tactician's glare wavered, and he swiveled to look at the Lady. "Then… how…?"

"I looked it up in the Royal Archives," she responded after a pause. She could see Soren's gaze narrowing, and she averted her eyes. "I told Kieran."

She did not look up to see his reaction, nor did she when she heard him retreat to his friend's side. Her eyes strayed to the devastation of the council chamber. The chairs had been knocked over, the table overturned and the parchments were dancing through the air as they languidly descended to the cold stone floor. The sight harkened her back to the coronation ball, where she and Soren had first met and where he had captivated her. They had conversed as she had tried vainly to plum the mysteries of the dark robed mage, they had danced and had tasted one another's lips. The first time being an accident, the second as an impulse, but the third being one of affection.

How had everything gone so wrong?

Her only answer was the hallow cadence of Ike and Soren's boots as they left the room.

"Why don't you come with Elincia and I, Soren? You can explain the details of the plan to—Aren't you coming, Elincia?"

Lucia, still unable to meet Soren or Ike's gazes, looked up as the Commander addressed her sister. She was quite surprised to see her still in the room, as she had expected Elincia to already be at the side of her future husband. The Queen's eyes lingered on her sister for a long moment, as though she struggled to resolve some internal debate. The Queen's lambent gaze shone with worry and confusion but, after a moment, she turned toward the door and her beckoning fiancé.

"Yes, Ike, I'm coming."

Elincia quickly joined Ike and Soren. Lucia wanted, desperately, to call out to them; to explain herself; to say _something_. But, the words died in her throat as the doors boomed shut behind the departing trio.

And, she was alone.


	11. Chapter 10

The Commander had paused in the hallway, his tactician standing dutifully at his side as they waited for the Queen to join them. The mage had tangled one hand in Ike's cape, staring up at the Commander. "You're bleeding," he said.

"It doesn't hurt." Ike smiled at his friend's concern.

"It looks horrible. You should see a healer."

"You _are_ a healer, Soren."

The mage sighed and gave a quick nod. "I'll see to it, then. Where's the supply room? I need a staff."

"There are staves in my room," the Queen chimed into their conversation. "Why don't we head there?" She smiled as she caught up, and then fell into stride beside them. As they continued down the hall, the Commander wrapped his arms about the shoulders of his companions. He looked down to his friend.

"So, how have you been, Soren?:

"…I'm all right, I think."

"Only all right?" the Commander asked, smiling gently.

The Queen's gaze shifted to the two, a smile drawing up the corners of her mouth. Finally, some semblance of normalcy had returned… the mage had, as of late, been wandering about like a shadow dismembered from its body, and her fiancé like an amputee without a right arm. She watched the small smile work onto the Shadow's face, and her fiancé grow more at ease. The fight that had ensued minutes ago had shoved them back together.

"I can understand, after all that," she said quietly. "The fight being about you, of course…" The mage's eyes wandered to her, the smile freezing on his face. Queen Elincia continued, almost to herself. "But… I don't understand. Kieran is hot blooded, but he's not usually one prone to such behavior… and _those_ words… they don't even make sense. Why would he call you a half-breed, my lord Soren?"

"Just a stammering dolt, that one," The Commander interrupted the exchange when he felt Soren grow tense against him. "Supply room's here," he said, stopping in the hall. "Closer than your room, Elincia."

Soren needed no further excuse to dart away from the couple and search for a staff. So, it appeared, the Commander had been true to his word. He'd told no one. Not even his fiancée… how could he have doubted Ike? He could see now that the true person to worry about was Lucia. He was confident that Ike would see to Kieran – if the knight was fool enough to risk another drubbing, that isto. But the Lady…

He shivered involuntarily and hurried to find a heal staff so he could return to the Commander's side. His eyes fell on one at length, and he retrieved the stave quickly.

"Here," he reappeared in the hallway shortly, and pulled the Commander around to face him. "Hold still," he instructed as the orb atop the staff flared with brilliant light.

A few moments later, and every trace of the fight had vanished from Ike's face. Gashes torn into his flesh mended themselves while flesh turned black and purple with bruises paled to a healthy, tanned complexion He pulled back with a grateful smile, which the mage responded to with another nod. "I'll put this back, then," he said, disappearing into the supply room once more.

"Did I say something wrong?" the Queen asked her fiancé in a hushed tone as Soren rushed off. She couldn't help but feel as if she had touched a nerve within the small mage. Ike's nod confirmed her suspicions.

"Just don't… he doesn't like people talking about him, is all," the Commander placated. She knew that this answer was only a half-truth, but she did not pry, as the mage reappeared in the next moment.

They continued their walk down the hall. The silence was oppressive – even Soren noted this.

"So… the wedding?" he queried suddenly.

"Planning is going smoothly, despite all this," Elincia sighed, glad for the ease of tension. "Maybe because of all this. There's not much else I can think happily upon."

She paused a moment after her words, looking to her fiancé. "There is _one_ aspect that is giving me trouble…"

The Commander looked down sheepishly, looking much like an abashed child. "I just don't want to make a production out of it."

"You're becoming a king, Ike! You know there has to be a formal ceremony!"

"I know that, I accept that, but do I really have to… I'm going to look like a moron, Elincia!"

The mage wondered what the two were bickering over, when he suddenly saw. He stepped over the threshold of the Queen's room, and was met with the sight of two outfits; one for the Queen and the other for…

The mage's laugh was somewhere between a snicker and a sigh, completely and utterly… Soren. The Commander heard it and smiled. "See, Elincia! Even Soren thinks it's ridiculous!" he protested.

"Just the opposite," Soren said, "I think he will look…" he struggled for the right word, "_stunning_."

Ike's face fell in shock. Had his tactician really just… he was only poking fun, wasn't he? He could one up him, if that was the case. He formulated a comeback quickly. "Fortunately, no one will be able to overlook the outfit my best man will be wearing."

He wasn't sure which part of his words had shocked Soren the most, but his words had the desired effect. The small mage dropped the papers he'd been holding in his arms and stared at the Commander's face, dumbstruck. Ike laughed.

"Is it really all that surprising, Soren?"

His Shadow shook his head slowly as his shock wore down to disbelief. "Are you joking?"

"Well, a bit," the Commander replied, "You get me out of wearing that flowery outfit, and I don't care what you wear in the ceremony."

His words elicited another small, nervous laugh from his friend. "I'll see what I can do."

The Commander smiled. "So you'll do it?:

"I'd consider it an honor. I'm grateful that you thought to ask me."

"Soren, who else would I ask?" the Commander said rhetorically. The mage gave no reply other than one last, small smile. Ike clapped his hand on Soren's shoulder. "There is one small order of business, though," he said, watching as the mage's expression wavered in confusion. "Elincia tells me that you can't be a groom's attendent for a noble's wedding without being a noble." The mage quirked his brow, and Ike smiled. "Silly, I know, but…"

Soren smiled. "I suppose I can bear a title, for the sake of your public decency," he said.

The Queen had been watching their exchange with a pleased light in her eye, and now stepped forward as her fiancé looked to her. "All right, then," she said. "You don't have a sword, and it would hardly be fitting to use a tome for this ceremony…" she paused, contemplating the matter, and her gaze fell upon a staff topped by a green orb, gathering dust in one corner. She crossed the distance over to the stave, and wiped off the orb with her fiancé's cape so that it gleamed once again. She then turned, presenting it to the mage.

"Will this do?"

"A Restore staff?" a gleam of amusement shimmered behind his eyes. "Hardly conventional, but I don't mind." The mage dropped to his knees and waited.

Queen Elincia raised the staff to hover above his head, and tested a few titles aloud. "Duke Soren? Sir Soren? The alliteration is nice, but… Count, perhaps? No…"

Ike broke in, snickering aloud. "Try "Duchess"," he offered. He laughed along with the Queen, and caught the mage's eye roll.

"Lord Soren," she said conclusively, lowering the staff to touch each of the mage's shoulders. "I grant you this title, and all its privileges, in the name of House Crimea. May you be granted long life and eternal blessings."

"I think he has all of us bested in the "long life" department," the Commander added.

"Hush, Ike. Rise, Lord Soren."

Soren offered a wan smile as he rose to his feet. "I don't feel any different," he said.

"It'll set in," Ike assured. "I bet it's because you haven't put on your funny hat yet."

When the laughter in the room stopped once again, Soren found the staff being shoved towards his arms. "Here," the Queen said, "You should keep this."

The tactician paused a moment, seemingly unsure about the gift, but accepted wordlessly.

"He's not sentimental, you know," Ike told his fiancée, "He'll put that to practical use. Won't gather dust in his possession."

"Well, it's his to keep. And," she smiled. "I don't think a staff would make much of a mantelpiece, anyway."

The mage snickered quietly, studying his reflection in the glass like sphere that topped the staff. The red on his forehead and in his eyes clashed with the green hue of his mirror image, but the smile on his face remained. Granted peerage – he, of all people – with a staff, of all things – to be in a wedding of nobles that happened to also be the wedding of his dearest friend. He'd never dreamed… but then, everything that had happened as of late was surreal in his views. Surreal, and maybe a touch on the crazy side… His eyes moved back towards the outfits for the wedding.

"Your Majesty," he began, directing his gaze to Elincia, "Are fire spells permitted indoors?"

The Commander's barking laugh and the Queen's light giggle were joined by a small, ghostly hum of mirth from the mage.

It had been far too long since a sound reminiscent of that had echoed in the halls of Castle Crimea.

-

By the time Geoffrey had dragged Kieran out of the council chamber, he was already angry. His anger had been compounded when Kieran, his eyes blazing embers, began struggling to escape the paladin's grip to retaliate against the mage and the queen's fiancé. Amidst a storm of bellowed insults and curses, which caused seemingly half the castle to halt in their tracks and stare in open astonishment, Kieran flailed with impossible vigor and nearly clocked the paladin in so doing. After evading half a dozen errant blows, and passing half a hundred gawking castle inhabitants, Geoffrey had been livid.

The red knight, still furious as his humiliation, tugged and twisted like a wolf in a snare but the paladin held him fast and, after what felt like hours, the rambling knight had been shoved into the castle infirmary. Thankfully, the healer on duty had not been shy about using his sleep staff to subdue the unruly patient.

Still seething, Geoffrey had then sauntered to the queen's chambers, hoping the leisurely pace would help to drain away his anger. And, indeed, he was enraged over what had happened. But, more than that, he was worried about the ramifications of this incident. Geoffrey had known Kieran since the two of them had been squires and, though the red knight didn't always seem to have his head mortared on straight, he had nonetheless been a brave and skillful combatant whom Geoffrey would gladly entrust with his life.

Now, however, Geoffrey was forced to admit that the red knight no longer inspired that same trust.

Kieran being distracted in the middle of drills was one thing, and was almost to be expected during such a grave situation, but starting a fight in the queen's presence - while her very life was in danger, no less - was quite another. Elincia, he knew, was a most forgiving woman, but Geoffrey knew that the long string of gawkers he had dragged Kieran past would likely not be so lenient. They would surely gossip about this for weeks, perhaps even months on end...and, Geoffrey shuddered to consider the harm such might inflict upon Kieran's reputation and standing amongst the knights.

Of course, Geoffrey was obliged - as both Kieran's fellow knight and as his friend - to set the red knight straight, though it was a duty he took no pleasure in.

Geoffrey had to admit, however, that Kieran was not the only one at fault.

After all, a great deal of the blame rested upon Lucia's shoulders as well.

Geoffrey had been quite perplexed when Lucia had, for no apparent reason, begun courting Kieran shortly after they Yule celebration. However, he had been happy for the pair...until Kieran burst into the paladin's office one day and thundered that Lucia had been leading him on. Geoffrey had been quite bemused since, for all of Lucia's teasing nature, such outright deceit was not in her character. The red knight's words, which had been less-than-coherent at the time, told Geoffrey that Lucia had used Kieran to inspire jealousy in a former love interest, with whom Lucia had claimed to have ended the relationship. Geoffrey had not been able to glean who this person might be, but Kieran's harsh words about Soren snubbing Lucia had given Geoffrey a clue; but one which confounded him all the more, and which had not provided him with the calm in the ranks that he had desired. And, if Geoffrey had been perplexed at the idea of Lucia courting Kieran, he was bewildered that she would seek Soren's attentions. Geoffrey's acquaintance with the mage had been, at best, passing, but Soren had struck Geoffrey as dour, suspicious, cynical, bitter and cold; which made Lucia's strange designs all the more bizarre. Still, he knew that Soren's keen wits and tactical prowess were urgently needed in order to thwart this assassin, and that the feud between the dour mage, the red knight and his sister was a distraction they could ill afford.

What he would do about it, however, was not clear; but, he felt that apologizing to the queen for his subordinate's behavior would be a necessary first step. After retracing his steps through the corridor, and through the still gawking servants and guards, he reached the ornate double doors leading to the queen's chambers. Impatient to diffuse the situation, he had neglected to knock and instead pull the doors open.

A flying pillow greeted him, whistling over his head and out into the corridor as he ducked beneath it. The paladin turned his bewildered gaze to the chamber itself, fearing for a terrifying fraction of a second that the assassin might have penetrated the queen's chambers. But, thankfully, this was not the case.

After all, though assassins could reportedly arm themselves with just about anything, a chemise cushion surely would not number amongst their weapons of choice.

The queen's fiancé, however, seemed more than willing to employ such a tactic, though Elincia seemed to have the upper hand as she retaliated with a large pillow.

"I am _not_ wearing that silly hat at the wedding ceremony!" Ike had insisted.

"Oh, yes you are!" Elincia had contradicted, soundly pelting Ike's face with her pillow.

Geoffrey had paused at the door, watching their shenanigans with equal parts disbelief and delight. Granted, he had long since known of his royal sister's impish side - in fact, he had found out much the same way that Ike was presently experiencing it - but it was still quite a sight to see the queen of Crimea and her future husband behaving like children. However, Geoffrey found it strangely appropriate.

Though both had been forced to shoulder grave responsibilities during the war, and more weighty burdens surely lay in the future, both were nonetheless two young people still some ways from the threshold of adulthood. Elincia, he knew, was barely sixteen when her life of carefree seclusion at the Royal Villa had been snatched away; and Ike, Geoffrey suspected, could not have yet seen his eighteenth year.

They deserved at least a little time to be as young as they truly were.

Soren, whom Geoffrey belatedly spotted hunched in the shadows, watched the spectacle with a curious expression on his face, as though he could not decide if he ought to be amused or disgusted. But, when Elincia had knocked aside Ike's "weapon" and crushed her lips against his, followed by her pillow, the mage's expression shifted. His lips drew downward, his crimson eyes taking on the hue of old blood, and he promptly buried his face in a tome. However, there was a curious distance to the mage's eyes, which suggested that the word on the thin pages were the last thing on his mind.

And, Geoffrey suspected that the image of a certain aqua haired swordmaster lurked behind Soren's now lifeless eyes.

Geoffrey, reminded unpleasantly of his errand, waited until the two pillow-wielding combatants had exhausted themselves before he approached Elincia and apologized to her on behalf of his errant subordinate. Elincia had accepted his apologies readily enough and, to Geoffrey's astonishment, she had asked him why he hadn't left for Nephenee's yet.

The paladin's normally unflappable expression suddenly faulted; with everything that had been happening, he had forgotten that Nephenee had invited him to dine with her family. Ike and Elincia must've guessed his thoughts from his face, for they exchanged smirks and promptly hustled the paladin out of the room. Geoffrey had attempted, without great success, to tell the queen that ensuring her safety was of greater importance and that he could reschedule his visit with Nephenee and her family. Elincia, who had taken a liking to her rustic future sister-in-law, had just smirked and shoved him bodily through the door.

"Oh, don't be silly!" she had said. "Now, get to that fiancée of yours! And, don't forget the goose!"

Geoffrey had been about to protest, when his vision was rather thoroughly occluded by a pillow flying into his face. Thus, ever the dutiful paladin, Geoffrey quickly did as his queen commanded...before she decided to throw something else at him. He was already out of the castle before he found himself wondering how Eincia had known that he was to fetch a goose for the meal.

Deciding that asking Elincia - and risking further bombardment in so doing - could wait, he instead made a quick visit to the market and then rode to the village of Ohma, a charming hamlet in the more rural corners of the realm. Far from the cobblestone streets and glittering spires of Melior, Ohma was a farming community that could be crossed from one boundary to the other in a few dozen paces.

But, Ohma more than made up for its diminutive size.

Though the people lived in humble, wooden cottages, these were skillfully built by stout hearted men and lovingly tended by women who were no less tireless. A number of these same people had emerged from their homes at hearing the clip-clod of his horse's hooves but, since this was hardly Geoffrey's first visit since he had begun courting Nephenee, they greeted him as they would any of their own neighbors. Some greeted him in succinct, but polite fashions, while others, especially the children, crowded around him to admire his magnificent warhorse and fine riding gear. But, though every villager seemed eager to shake his hand, there was only one citizen in this quiet hamlet whom Geoffrey wanted to see.

Nephenee.

After weaving through the small crowd, he finally reached his future wife's door. Before he could even knock, however, he heard the sound of light footsteps approaching him from behind. Then, in that same instance, he heard more footfalls echoing from either side. Whoever it was had endeavored to be silent, but the well worn boards thwarted them as they creaked beneath their light-footed steps. The paladin turned, and a small form rammed into his guts, knocking him off of his feet. He crashed down onto the small porch, and felt small hands seize both of his wrists.

Geoffrey, however, didn't bother to struggle against his assailants. In fact, as one of them loomed over him with a smug, leering grin, the paladin merely smiled in reply.

"You're getting better," the paladin commented dryly. "But, you forgot something very important."

Geoffrey drew his legs upward, his greaves rising up behind his less-than-towering assailant, and then he swung them down with such momentum that his torso was flung upright. Geoffrey than regarded his would be assailant...who barely came to his waist.

The paladin's other "assailants" now dangled from his wrists, unable to release their hold before he rose and now clinging to their would-be captive for dear life. Smiling at their antics, Geoffrey knelt and allowed them to reach the ground.

"It's good to see ya again, Sir Geoffrey," the formerly smirking boy greeted, his tone friendly despite the paladin's escape. "Neph'll be awful happy to see ya. 'N Ma's been wantin' to see ya again fer ages now, I reckon!"

Geoffrey ruffled the boy's teal hair, and that of his brothers, before resuming his interrupted journey to the door. Again, however, he had no chance to knock, for the door opened from within. The frame was promptly filled - or, rather, overfilled - by a stocky but pleasant faced woman who, much to the three boys' chagrin, began lecturing them for jumping on a guest. The paladin, once he had swallowed his chuckles, assured the woman that he was unharmed and that there was no need to punish the boys. The woman seemed reluctant to accept his word, however.

"Now, just what sort 'o lady would I be if I let my future son-in-law get dirtied up like that before supper?" she asked, waggling her finger at Geoffrey as much as at her mischievous sons, and Geoffrey could only shrug in reply.

She moved to clear the doorway but, before Geoffrey could enter, he was interdicted for a third time by a slender but well muscled form charging into his arms.

This interruption, however, was one he didn't mind.

"I see you missed me, Nephenee," Geoffrey commented dryly.

"Ya don't...," Nephenee spluttered, catching herself in mid-sentence. "You do not know the half of it, my dear."

The paladin chuckled at Nephenee's attempt to smooth out her thick country accent, though he hardly minded her rustic inflection. Geoffrey had heard more than enough of the oiled speech of the city aristocrats to be leery of every word they spoke. Still, he drew back to gaze down at the halberdier. It had taken quite a bit of cajoling from their mutual acquaintance, the eccentric Calill, but Nephenee had finally removed her plain helm. And, as Calill had predicted, there was indeed a lovely face beneath the unshapely iron.

Her teal hair, combed and washed, cascaded gracefully to her shoulders like woven sea foam, while her similarly colored eyes glowed happily at seeing him. Though Nephenee had endeavored to take Calill's advice about being more assertive, he could see hints of her usual bashfulness in the charming blush that painted her cherubic features. She rarely wore makeup, but the bronzed color of her tanned skin possessed a rich enough hue in and of itself. And, last but not least, she wore a genuine and radiant smile at seeing him. Geoffrey, his own lips rising to bridge the gap between his ears, dipped into a gracious bow and brought her hand, toughened by labor yet still retaining some feminine delicacy, to his lips.

This prompting an adoring sigh from Nephenee's mother...and some less polite noises from her younger siblings.

"Now, y'all hush up!" Nephenee's mother chastised. "And, let's all get inside."

The house in which Nephenee's family dwelled was modest, but spacious. Just beyond the doorway, Geoffrey glimpsed the kitchen and the dining area which, though snug, had seen a great deal of use by the copious and lively family. Much of the furnishings showed wear, and Geoffrey suspected there was a little story behind every scuff mark, torn seam and splintering of wood...and that at least a few of those stories featured the rambunctious triplets. When Geoffrey had first met the boys, and they had finished gagging at the notion of their eldest sister being in love, they had been quite fascinated to learn that their sister's "boyfriend" was a knight and had bombarded him with questions. Geoffrey had answered their questions with a bit of nostalgic humor; for he could very clearly remember himself at their age, asking those same questions with equally wide eyes.

In fact, since the boys had taken to fighting mock sword fights with sticks during Geoffrey's last visit, he had a sense that the his nostalgic recollection might prove to be prophetic.

Nephenee's mother - or, more simply, "Ma" - had also been quite enthused at meeting him. Her husband, Nephenee's father, had passed away some years ago, and Nephenee had been forced to fill the vacuum as best she could by doing odd-jobs around Ohma and through her service in the Crimean militia. Though Ma - and, indeed, the whole family - had been grateful that Nephenee had risen to the challenge, Ma had always regretted that her eldest child had had to shoulder such a burden at so young an age. This, combined with Nephenee's shy and self-conscious nature, sometimes caused Ma to fear that Nephenee's youth would be spent before she had even had a chance to enjoy it. Thus, the joy she had felt when Nephenee had returned from the war, alive and unharmed, had grown all the more when she had arrived escorted by a handsome man who cared for her.

And, indeed, the paladin's eclectic future in-laws were growing on his as well. Though a far cry from his opulent family estate, the close-knit, homey atmosphere of this house could make him feel welcome and at ease on even the worst days...and, given the circumstances, he was especially grateful for this particular truth. Though none here knew the specifics, even this isolated hamlet was surely aware that some manner of villain sought the life of the newly crowned queen. In fact, Geoffrey had been able to think of little else for some time now, and it was obvious that this dire situation weighed on Nephenee's mind as well.

Perhaps, despite the seeming rashness of the suggestion, Elincia had been right to insist that the pair have this respite tonight?

Nodding gamely at the notion, Geoffrey brought out the goose, thankful the bird had come away unscathed from the triplets' "ambush." He impaled it upon the spit and began turning the bird over the flaming hearth. As he worked, he let his gaze wander over the household. The crowded house, as was often the case, seemed to be bustling. Nephenee's younger sister - Cara, who was closest to Nephenee in age - was stirring a pot filled with a savory stew while the triplets, after mentioning to Geoffrey that they'd get him next time, began chopping up the vegetables. Mae, Nephenee's youngest sister, began fetching and carrying whatever was needed while Nephenee and Ma began setting the table.

Nephenee caught his eye, as she always did, and he felt obvious delight when she met his gaze squarely instead of staring up at him through her lashes, as she had often done in the past. Indeed, when they had first met - less-than-auspiciously, by colliding with each other in the mess tent - it seemed that simply holding a simple conversation with her was quite a struggle. Geoffrey, being a knight, had always endeavored to be courteous and considerate with others, and had thus been perplexed and a bit distressed that Nephenee seemed to be almost intimidated by him. And, Nephenee was, indeed, intimidated...though, not in the fashion Geoffrey had feared. The halberdier, he'd discovered, was very self-conscious about her looks and her voice and, thus, had tried to avoid speaking aloud or removing her helm in public. However, a certain eccentric sage would not tolerate such behavior from an eligible young lady.

And, indeed, Calill's meddling had been rather invasive. But, it had also been fortuitous; for, gradually, things began to change between the paladin and the halberdier.

Though Nephenee was hardly the most outgoing person in the army, she did charm Geoffrey with her courage and her determination on the battlefield. Her skills in combat were also most impressive, especially since she hadn't had the formal training of a regular army soldier. Still, he could perceive that her technique was a bit rough, and had offered to give her some instruction. He could sense quite a bit of tension in the stance of her thrusts and lunges, which grew more acute when he had laid hands on her arms and waist to guide her through the different motions. Despite the seeming awkwardness between them, Nephenee had proven to be an excellent student and Geoffrey quickly determined that he'd trust her on the battlefield anytime.

During the Battle of the Marhaut Range, that trust had been vindicated. A lucky shot from an enemy archer had knocked the paladin from his saddle and, before he could remount, one of the boulders sent hurtling down from the Daein army's fastness upon the summit was careening towards him. Though Geoffrey had tried to escape the path of the huge rock, he was half a second too slow. The boulder had rolled over one of the his legs, the bones cracking with a sickening report, and a small unit of Daeins had arrived to finish him off.

That battle would likely have been his last, had Nephenee not intervened.

The halberdier, whom Geoffrey could have sworn was far behind him, had charged into the fray seemingly from nowhere, and had run through one of Geoffrey's would-be slayers. The paladin, once he had recovered his wits, snatched up his bow and put an arrow through the neck of a second foe. Ultimately, the two allies managed to hold back their attackers until one of the healers had caught up to them. Once Geoffrey's leg had been mended, he'd sought out Nephenee to properly thank her. For a time, it seemed that she'd only murmur bashfully in reply, but a certain sage's elbow digging into her ribs forced her to reconsider.

Later on, after the proverbial "ice" had been broken, the paladin and the halberdier had become fast friends. Though Nephenee still needed an occasional nudge from Calill to face Geoffrey's gaze squarely, he found himself taking a hand in encouraging the shy halberdier. He would lay a gentle hand on her shoulder or, in his more forward moments, he would tilt her chin upward and offer an encouraging smile when she did not flinch away. At first, Geoffrey had wondered at those strange impulses. Granted, the debt of one's life was one that demanded repayment, but the paladin could not help but sense that there was more than chivalry at work.

Calill, naturally, made her own suggestion as to the cause...and left a rather flustered paladin sputtering denials in her wake.

Later still, Geoffrey had the opportunity to repay his debt of honor. It had occurred following the Battle of Gritnea Tower, and the horrific discovery in its deepest bowels. Once Nasir had revealed the concealed door, all had become aware of the horrible, deathly stench that wafted through the portal.

Few had possessed the constitution to follow Ike when he elected to discover the source of the foul aroma, but Geoffrey and Nephenee had been among those few.

The scene that greeted them - and which still haunted Geoffrey's nightmares to this day - had been so vile that it had only been by some miracle of endurance that he had not begin to retch on the spot. Nephenee, horrified by the barbarity of the cruel experimentations, had bolted from the chamber. Geoffrey, who was nursing a convulsing stomach, had not been able to match her pace and, by the time he had caught up to her, she had passed out from mingled shock and exhaustion.

And, a stray Feral One was looming over her.

The paladin, thankfully, had not allowed his nausea to dull his combat skills, and had managed to dispatch the corrupted beast. When he turned to Nephenee, however, he was struck by how...peaceful she looked. It was an odd thought, considering what she had just seen, but the thought refused to be dispelled. In fact, as he examined her face, he could not help but notice that her features lacked the closed evasiveness and trepidation that her shyness often inspired. She looked...innocent, demure, as though there was a hint of a smile on her features. In that instant, he suddenly found himself deeply relieved that he had followed her before...he could not finish the thought.

He had lifted her up, and was more than a little surprised by how heavy she was, and carried her back to the army's camp. He had sought out a healer, who had promptly confirmed that the halberdier had merely passed out from her ordeal and would recover soon enough. Geoffrey had found her tent, laid her on her bedroll, and had been about to leave...but, for some reason, he reconsidered. Why he did so, he had not known. Perhaps he wanted to ensure that the horrors she'd witnessed beneath the tower had caused no lasting harm. Maybe he wanted to be certain that the Feral One had not injured her before he had arrived. Or, he might have simply wanted to be on hand if she needed to talk out what she had seen in those terrifying dungeons. Whatever the case, he found himself settling down on the tent floor and watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. On an impulse, he removed her helmet and found himself struck by what he discovered underneath.

She was beautiful.

Her hair, though disheveled, glistened like sea foam in the flickering candlelight. Her face, though smudged, was shapely with high cheekbones. And, her bronzed skin had the look of burnished gold.

After shaking himself from these odd musings, he'd tried to divert his attention, but the tent's interior was much too featureless to distract him from the slumbering halberdier. Again, he'd tried to force himself to rise, but had still felt some curious reluctance to depart. Why this was, he could not say, but he found himself leaning back against one of the tent supports and idly humming a tune. It was an old one which he'd heard many years ago, and one which always helped to calm his anxious thoughts. It was not a warrior's song, but one of the land. Of vast, sprawling grasslands, of pristine lakes and the rich scent of apple blossoms...all of which he found far preferable to the overcrowded and maddeningly noisy cities. He'd been in the midst of the fifth measure when, much to his embarrassment, he realized that Nephenee had risen and was listening intently.

Geoffrey had uttered some decidedly timid reply, but Nephenee silenced him by mentioning she also knew the song, and that she'd often heard it sung by her mother. She also admitted, somewhat sheepishly, that his humming reminded her of the home and family she hoped to return to once the war was over. The paladin, oddly relieved at her words, had asked about her family and, with some urging here and there, Nephenee had told him about her mother and her many siblings, of her departed father and of the pastoral lands around Ohma; which very much resembled those of the song.

Geoffrey, startling himself in so doing, voiced that he'd like to see such a place someday. And, no doubt astonishing herself as well, Nephenee invited him to Ohma to see it for himself.

The paladin had taken her up on the invitation just after the war had ended and, indeed, the lands around Ohma were wondrous. An unspoiled, sylvan vista, a sea of rippling emerald dotted by islands of wildflowers that filled the air with a thousand sweet aromas, the warmth of the sun and the brisk chill of the strong, seaborne winds.

He had turned back to Nephenee and saw that, though she had grown up amongst these lands, she was no less entranced by the sight than he. And, Geoffrey could understand why.

After all, few things can make one appreciate their home like the looming prospect that they'd never see it again.

Geoffrey saw also that Nephenee looked radiant, the rich sunlight giving her an almost angelic glow and complementing the joy on her normally closed features at finding her family whole and unharmed some hours before. Whether it was his hand that closed around hers first, or the other way around, he did not know. Nor did he care.

For the first time since before the war, he had been genuinely happy.

Nephenee had remarked, blushing faintly all the while, that she was surprised Geoffrey had taken her up on her invitation. And, the red painting her features deepened when he replied that there was nowhere else on Tellius that he'd rather be.

But, his recollection of the events which brought him here reminded him that there was a place where he_ should_ be.

However, the Queen had insisted that he not worry. And he was not one to disobey the Queen.


	12. Chapter 11

Consciousness did not come easily. Upon coming to his senses, he found himself sprawled in a rather unknightly manner upon a bed that was still made, one arm tossed over the side of the bed and the other twisted up above his head, both of his hands curled into fists with his fingernails digging trenches into his calloused palms, one leg bent and the other locked at the knee, missing one shoe and one shoulder pauldron, jaw locked and teeth clenched, a rather bored looking healer standing over him.

"Get up."

Kieran relaxed his strangely tensed form, curling his body back into a somewhat normal position, and sat up. Almost instantly, a wave of dizziness fell upon him, and he grabbed his attendant as he swayed to the left and the room spun. As soon as he righted himself, the healer pulled away.

"I'd ask what you were thinking, but I can only assume you weren't thinking at all," the man said, his eyes narrowed with distaste at the knight before him. Kieran looked perplexed a moment, before he recalled the events that had preceded his visit to the infirmary.

The Yule Ball had been one of the best nights of his life.

He'd always been a simple knight, living only for valor and battle and courage and loyalty and whatnot. He'd always considered his devotion to country and Queen to be his most admirable trait, and it seemed only fitting to presume that his rise to "Crimean Fifth Platoon Captain Kieran the Great and Awesome" had been based solely on his loyalty and skill. There was, of course, his unmatched bravery and close companionship to the royal family to be taken into account, but nonetheless, he always considered his duty as a knight to be the only important thing, his one greatest and immeasurable achievement.

That was, of course, until those intelligent, loving azure eyes had turned on to him, those fair, supple hands had grasped his own, those sweet, ruby lips had whispered to him…

He had not once pictured himself with the sister of the Commander and Queen, just as he could not picture then that their affair had been one of deceit. But in those moments before her deviousness had come to light, he was happier than he had ever been. Even more than his feats of strength and courage, even more than his triumph over beast and briar, even more than his knighthood, even more than Crimea itself, he loved Lucia. For she was a woman of integrity, who knew what she wanted and was persistent enough to reach any goal she desired. Her loyalty and love for Crimea and the Queen even rivaled his own. And he could not deny that she was beautiful. She had charmed him with words coated in sugar, extolling his features and praising his character. And his devotion and courage and passion was matched in her, and he let her know so. He had thought the he was without equal… until he had gotten to know her. And she did care…

She cared about the dour faced mage.

The bane of his existence.

It seemed that, from the start, Lucia had the knight in the palm of her hand, putty to mold into any shape she wanted. Had she known that his courage would stop him from having any hesitance in their relationship? That his loyalty would keep him by her side? That his passion and exuberance would create a display so great as to make any onlooker jealous? That his devotion would make him blind to her true motives?

These facets combined to make him the perfect pawn to be used in her plans.

And maybe she had not intended such malice and spite, but knowing that she was picturing another whenever he held her and she kissed him hurt deeper than any mortal wound. And this wound, he had to admit, was partly a fault of his own. For he had taken the stinging welt of Lucia's betrayal and dug it deeper with a sword of his own creation.

Revenge.

In his haste to compensate for his bruised feelings following the betrayal of the Lady, he resorted to insulting the mage – nay, a fellow retainer, who was as much of a pawn as he – and started a fight in front of the Queen – with her fiancé, no less! – and blatantly disregarded the words of his commanding officer.

He was no knight.

He was the worst kind of traitor there was. He was not a knight of Crimea, for a knight was a man who did not let emotion deter him from duty, so he no longer deserved the title or rank, and this betrayal was the worst kind he could ever make. For his duty had been his love before Lucia, and now, he did not have nor deserve either.

He had skated onto thin ice, and had created enemies at every door. If he fell through, he was almost certain that no one would save him.

These were the thoughts storming in his mind as he excused himself from the infirmary and thundered down the hall and outside. He needed fresh air and open surroundings to quell the tempest of his emotions. They'd had free reign for far too long. He needed to get out of this castle and away from these infuriating people, maybe scream a few times, where no one could hear him.

He just needed to _go_.

He made his way to the stables and to his horse, his comrade-in-arms. Kieran was mostly a talker, and he had found that of all creatures, perhaps his horse was the best listener. He had wondered once, in passing, if talking to his horse would earn him disapproving glances and marks on his reputation, but he didn't find much cause for worry now; his talking to humans had set his fate in stone.

The knight ran a hand down his steed's muzzle. "Why," he sighed, "did she choose _me_?"

-

The first full moon of the year rose high in the night sky, a disk of resplendent silver which gleamed coolly in the warm air of early spring. Though the hour was late, many a creature yet stirred restlessly, sleep proving elusive in the newfound warmth which had finally annihilated the final traces of the dying winter. One such creature, a majestic stag with horns proudly displayed, strode imperiously amongst the still bare trees. The soft gleam of the moon illuminated the elegant curves of its horns as the thorny tips tore at the humid air with every step. Despite the creature's regal bearing, there was a palpable hint of trepidation in its soft, brown eyes and its lordly gait. The horned head turned warily from side to side, its eyes scanning the shadows with unblinking vigilance, while the ears tensed and flexed at the slightest sound.

And, the stag did not seem alone in its trepidation.

The ceaseless serenade of the myriad woodland insects rang discordantly this night, sometimes ceasing abruptly and plunging the dark forest into a stifling silence. Even when the serenade resumed, it seemed hushed and bereft of its customary, soothing quality. Instead, the insects sang of fear, with an undertone of lamenting.

The hoots of the owls also echoed shrilly and, from time to time, would suddenly grow hoarse before ending in a sharp, cracking sound. Yet, when an owl fell silent this night, its voice was not heard again. Ever.

The wild geese, which once winged towards the moon, were also absent... and, indeed, it had been some days since they were last seen.

All through the woods this night, a terrible hush had fallen; blanketing the newly revived woodland in a cold sharper than any winter, and a darkness deeper than any night. A new creature now stalked the forest, yet this creature was unlike any who had come before it.

Some of its victims, those who were mercifully unable to understand the nature of the living horror they were confronted with, caught a vague but terrible sight of the monster before it was upon them.

A figure which stood on two legs.

Its jaw working feverishly as growls, howls and hisses alike escaped its lips.

Emerald and auburn fluttered about his lithe form, bespangled with red which gleamed in haphazard splotches and intricate, profane patterns.

A length of supple wood clasped in one hand, the orb atop it flaring with a deathly pale light, and a gleaming blade in the other.

By the time the stag sensed the monster's presence, it was already too late.

There was a sudden flash of pale light, and the stag's gait abruptly faltered, as though the muscles in its legs had suddenly seized up. The creature's already swiftly beating heart now hammered against its ribs, while its stomach convulsed in pain. The stag's vision swam; its breath going short and hard before being choked away by an unseen fist clenching down upon its neck. The stag's limbs crumbled beneath the proud creature, sending it sprawling to the earth, while a terrible drowsiness descended upon it. The stag knew it had fallen prey to some deadly predator, and bent all its remaining willpower to rise again and flee for safety.

Yet, the creature's throat remained locked. The unseen fist squeezed tighter and tighter, until the world spun.

The creature's legs were deaf to its frantic commands, the twisted limbs seeming to go as rigid as stone.

And, with each passing moment, the creature felt the weight of slumber press more and more heavily upon it... a slumber, the proud beast feared, would be its last.

As a veil of red descended upon the world, the stag beheld the monster as it strode confidently into the line of its failing vision.

The stag was no stranger to the two legged hunters, who prowled the forests astride powerful horses and whose arrows were guided by the sharp eyes of falcons. But, this was no ordinary hunter.

This was a man spawned of nightmares.

The staff the monster held shone only faintly, its already pallid light now waning by the second, but it illuminated a face contorted with madness. A broad, feral grin sliced across a face bespangled with cuts and bruises, the face of a man so well acquainted with violence that he now _lusted_ after it.

Yet, greater horrors still lay within his eyes.

They were cold; dark portals which descended into a terrible abyss, vortices of malice that could devour the courage of even the bravest of men just as surely as the monster's blade would devour their lives.

The stag saw its future - as brief and terrible as it was - reflected in the wickedly gleaming metal; for even the proudest of creatures would inevitably be humbled by Death.

Death plunged its dagger into the stag's flesh. The stag's locked throat strangled away any outcry of pain as the Death tore its blade free of the helpless creature's hide. The feral grin broadened and the dagger descended again, this time burying itself to the hilt, before being torn free once more. Again and again, Death's blade plunged into the creature's hide; not aiming to simply kill, but to brutalize. Which each of its victim's convulsions, Death felt power flow through its form. Every time the doomed creature fought to draw breath, Death's jaws curved upward in excitement. As the life slowly began to drain from the stag's eyes, Death sang with delight at the prize that would soon rest in its stygian grasp.

When the creature finally gasped out its life and fell still, Death felt _alive_.

For, indeed, Death _was_ alive.

Once a shadow that loomed over the lives over all - be they men or women, highborn or humbly, young or elderly, beorc or laguz - that shadow now walked amongst the men whose lives must one day be relinquished to its cold, dark embrace.

Death was now clothed in the same flesh as the mortals it stalked; Death breathed the same air they did; and, the same blood ran in Death's veins as that which it stilled in its victims.

Well, almost the same.

Just as the shadow of Death was neither a beorc nor a laguz, neither was the flesh it now wore.

Its jaws, dripping with the venom of hatred and gleaming like fangs in the moonlight, turned towards the moon and unleashed a lupine howl of bloodlust and delight.

No less chilling was the smacking of Death's lips and its moans of delight as it thrust its hands into the savaged stag and claimed its tribute. Gleaming fangs turned a sickly red as Death feasted upon the life fluids of its latest prey. And, indeed, the savaged stag was not Death's only victim.

Far from it.

Once, seemingly an eternity ago, Death had been a simple man. A skillful man, whose talents in the arts of killing had been honed to perfection, but still a simple man nonetheless. He had once had loyalties which he sold to any bidder who could furnish him with a contact of sufficient challenge to do justice to his grandeur. He'd had a name, though one he spat from his lips as one would a piece of rotten fruit. He'd had a home, though any one room served his trade as well as another. He'd had people to whom he'd respected and people whom he loathed.

Now, he had none of these things.

He was no longer a man, but a force of nature.

His only loyalty was to his calling, and his hunger for cutting short the life strands of whomever he chose.

He no longer sought a challenge, for his new trade was above such vulgar egotism.

He had no home; for, what use was a home to one who was everywhere?

He no longer felt respect for anyone, and now loathed all who lived.

As for grandeur... what grandeur could be greater than shepherding misbegotten souls to their final resting place?

As for his name, he had now taken the name of both his trade and the force of nature he now personified.

_Death._

Now, he had power and purpose.

For days, Death had stalked these woods to revel in its newfound autonomy over the living. No longer a looming shadow awaiting the severing of a creature's life strand, Death now stalked its victims and claimed them at its pleasure.

Death had feasted well on the blood of owls and wild geese, whose sharp eyes and great wings were no match for Death's omnipresent wrath.

Neither the hares, with their keen ears and agile forms, nor the bears, with their sharp claws and great strength, had fared better against Death.

Death had claimed each and all, feeding upon the ichor in their veins and painting its raiment with runes celebrating its macabre triumphs. The insects were his sole witnesses, singing requiems for the departed as they awaited their own end.

Yet, Death was not satisfied.

Its gaze fixed upon a magnificent castle that rose in the distance, its marbled walls and lofty towers gleaming in alabaster splendor. Any mortal onlooker would judge the structure's splendor as a vain, but valiant, attempt to overshadow the gleaming moon above.

Yet, Death was far from merely mortal. And, Death had vowed to forever darken that splendor.

The castle's inhabitants had cheated Death too often, but their time would soon come, as it came for everyone.

In the abyssal umbra that was Death's eyes lurked the shadows of his previous incarnations, all of which clamored for vengeance. The Chimera; with the power to weave itself into the very fabric of the world to await the careless prey. The Predator; whose devious intellect and tenacity would carry it boldly to the very jaws of danger. The Wolf; patient and cunning, with sharp eyes to spy disasters and opportunities alike. And, the Serpent; humble and beguiling, until its venom brought even the mighty to their knees.

Each and all had been foiled.

Yet, Death would not be turned away.

For, just as Death commanded the power to snuff out the lives of its victims, it also possessed the omnipresent might and implacability of its namesake. Each and all of its myriad incarnations had now been honed, sharpened and perfected; each now a weapon in Death's flawless arsenal.

And, Death now wielded a tool perfectly suited to avenging these past defeats.

Death took up the length of supple wood he had claimed some days before, torn from the grasp of a humble priest who had failed to pierce the evil beneath the Serpent's beautiful scales and sibilant voice.

With that very staff, the priest had given the Serpent back its shattered legs...and had signed his own death warrant.

Now, the staff was an instrument of Death, and it gave the murderous abomination who now basked in the moonlight the power of its namesake. What was once a tool to restore strength could now drain it away. What once purged poison from the body could now pour the deadliest of venoms into a man's veins. What once eased the weary into a gentle sleep now ushered them into the long, cold slumber of eternity.

The staff was now a Harbinger of Death, visiting upon its victims the same terrible helplessness which presaged the encroaching of any mortal's time upon the earth.

Harbinger would spell the end of Death's enemies. And, though every heart that yet beat tantalized Death's murderous appetite, there were certain souls it sought above all others.

The upstart queen and the common born sell sword who would share her throne; the aqua haired sword master and the dour mage who had dogged and humiliated Death's previous incarnations; the aqua haired paladin and his bumpkin bride...  
and anyone else who caught Death's cold gaze.

And, the time to do so would come soon.

Indeed, the Wolf's keen eyes - which now served Death - had already spied what might be an opportunity... or a new snare.

As Death called upon the Chimera's power of nigh-invisibility, it stole close enough to spy a conference between the upstart queen and her churls, which suddenly turned into a row. The violence had ended abruptly when the dour mage had conjured a tornado in the very heart of the castle.

Then, the group had dispersed.

With the Chimera shielding Death from prying eyes, and its steps guided by the boldness of the Predator and the devious intellect of the Serpent, Death traced their paths.

The aqua haired paladin had shoved his red armored subordinate into the infirmary.

The upstart queen, the sell sword and the dour mage left for the royal bedchambers, guarded smiles on each of their faces.

The aqua haired sword master lingered in the council chamber; her gaze downcast as she went as still as a melancholy statue.

The aqua haired paladin then entered the upstart queen's chambers and discovered, of all things, a pillow fight raging before him. After being unwittingly dragged into the infantile conflict, he had departed; no doubt seeking his bumpkin bride.

_"This is our opportunity!"_ the Predator exclaimed. _"Our foes turn against each other, and we can pick them off one by one!"_

_"Hold!"_ the Wolf chastened._"The dour mage has spied us already. The castle is aware of our plan, and that display may have been bait."_

_"You cower in the treetops while the prey is ripe for the picking?! Your cowardice does not befit this mission!"_

_"I must concur with the Wolf,"_ the Chimera spoke up, drawing a low growl from the affronted Predator. _"Even if our foes have turned on each other, they are still well protected."_

_"That can be remedied eassssily enough,"_ the Serpent offered, its forked tongue glossing over the words. _"Let us sssslither through ssssome chink in thissss poroussss barrier."_

_"No,"_ the Wolf denied, his tone brooking no disagreement. _"I have seen none. I have scanned every crack in the castle walls, and found snares waiting beyond the gap. The castle cannot be penetrated, unless we are allowed in."_

The Predator spat at these words, but the eyes of the Chimera and the Serpent glittered with interest.

_"That is easily remedied,"_ the Chimera ventured. _"The castle would throw wide its gates for a friendly face."_

_"And, I know jusssst the one,"_ the Serpent added. _"The priesssst sssserved us in life. Let him sssserve us again in Death."_

_"You hide behind plots and veils!"_ the Predator thundered. _"With Harbinger, I say we force our way in!"_

_"You are twice the fool for such a suggestion," the Wolf retorted. "The Chimera and the Serpent have the right of it."_

Now, at long last, Death spoke.

"My incarnations, your time of retribution shall come soon and shall be sweet. With our combined strengths, and the power of Harbinger, we will drain the very life from the upstart queen who has evaded our grasp for too long. We shall force her and her sell sword betrothed to watch the life drain from one another's eyes. Then, the blood of all the castle will be ours for the taking!"

To any onlooker, it would seem as though the blood slathered figure who still loomed above the savaged corpse of the once majestic stag had been an actor in some perverse play; performing five different roles whose voices all sounded from the same pair of lips.

Any onlooker would think this man a lunatic... and, they might be correct.

Yet, when Death howled again - the sound echoing like the discordant melody of five monstrous creatures in horrifying unison - all thoughts would be wiped from the mind of any onlooker.

Save one.

Death now stalked the living. And, it would not be denied.


	13. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** It's been a while since I've actually said anything to you guys. First off, I'd like to thank the twenty-odd of you that have stuck with this story thus far - I appreciate it more than you know. It means a lot to know that someone is reading the stuff that I've spent hours of my life on, when I probably should have been studying for my AP class. ^^;

At any rate, you've made it to chapter 12! There is a lot more to come, and, in fact, this story is only about halfway done. I hope you all will continue to read along and enjoy! If you have any suggestions, anything at all, I would love to hear them!

That, and reviews are pretty.

Thank you!

* * *

"Soren, we need to talk."

Lucia sighed and closed her eyes, trying not to picture his face, how he would receive this.

"I am so sorry. What else can I say? I could beg for your forgiveness… is that what you want? Will that make things better?" She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands. She chanced a look, but shuddered at what she saw and quickly closed her eyes again. She had to try, didn't she? Maybe it would work.

"Please, Soren. I can't bear this tension anymore. I know that this is my fault, but…" her words trailed away for a moment, but then began to tumble from her lips all the faster, "And, and I don't care about your bloodline! You're still you, Soren, who cares what that little mark on your forehead means? I just… asking you to be a friend to me, to be… anything more than that is more than I deserve. But please, can we be on speaking terms again? I—" she realized that she had not taken a breath for a while, and paused. "I don't—oh, what am I doing?" she let out an exasperated breath and ran both hands through her hair to rest upon her head. She stared at her reflection in the full length mirror before her, then turned away. She was a mess. How could she ever hope for this all to be forgotten?

She glanced once around her, the Queen's room. She had come here, as advised by Ike, to explain the finer details of the plan to the Queen while Soren explained them to the Commander. It was a waste of time, but also the only way that they could work together.

The lady tactician rose to her feet with a sigh, and turned to face the door. The gaze that met her was the one she least expected.

"Lucia, what are you doing?"

His gaze was almost accusatory, and the question was asked as if it had been voiced out of duty, not inquisitiveness. Her mouth opened and closed once, seeking words that would not come.

"I was… was just…" an idea struck her. "I was only practicing. For when I will be posing as Elincia," she lied.

The mage's eyebrows went up. "Must I remind you that you will not be saying anything? Much less be down on your knees…"

"How much did you hear?"

He was taken aback by the question, which seemed to rush out of her mouth before she could think. "I heard… nothing. Why?"

"Just was… going to ask you if my acting was convincing."

"I'm sure it was fine. As you've reassured Elincia and Ike countless times, you've played Elincia's role before."

"Yes, when we were younger. Elincia was a wonderful child to be sure, always polite and willing to do whatever asked of her… but there, of course, were days when she wondered about the outside world, beyond the royal villa. And so, several times I volunteered to take her place for a few hours while she explored. Of course, things never really went quite as we planned – I could look the part well enough, but I could never quite get her voice right… and then, of course, there was the matter of eye color and height difference. Renning always seemed to notice the swap first, and pretty soon at that. Elincia would always be found still in her room; I suppose she never felt the thrill of rule-breaking, so she never really did leave. It was fun, though, pretending, back then. Seems so childish now. And so long ago… but of course, I suppose my experience will be helpful now."

"Mm."

She frowned at his noncommittal reply. "Don't you think so, Soren?"

"…there is, of course, the height difference, the eye color, and your voice sounds nothing like—"

"Are you worried?"

"About you? Hardly."

"What, then? Just feel like spouting negativity?"

"I am merely being realistic. If I can't see everything that could possibly give you away and find some way to compensate for it, then this plan could fail."

"And I would die."

"Not so much that," the mage said, his gaze hardening slightly.

"Do you really care so little about me?" she asked, slightly offended.

"Not so much that, either. It's just… no matter how willing you think you are to risk your life to stop that assassin, I don't think you will."

"Are you accusing me of cowardice? Soren, you should know me well enough by now to know that—"

"Ike will be beside you. And no matter how many times you tell him that you'll take the risk, no matter how many times you remind him that all he must do is stand there for the sake of the ploy, he… it would not be in his nature to not try and protect you. As you should recall, Ike is not a man who would knowingly let his friends walk down a path that would lead them to suffering. He'd stop them."

Lucia's anger melted slightly. Of course, it would be the commander that Soren was worried for. Such only made sense. She opened her mouth to reply, but he had closed his eyes and did not see this. So he continued.

"Ike is different from the rest of the world. He is compassionate and caring, willing to bend his ear to any who need someone to listen, be they Beorc, Laguz, or B… … Branded. He is selfless and protective, and will not hesitate to stand up for the people he cares about. He is ruthless to those who want to harm that which he loves. When he does wrong, he seeks first and foremost to make things right, the instant he sees that he has hurt someone. He is good, and just, and… and whole. So unlike me, and, in some ways… so very similar to you."

He was finished now, but she did not know what to say. She could not be completely sure of who he was praising, for she knew that she, of all people, did not deserve… the thought struck her suddenly that he must have lied. He must have heard her. He may have even watched her act out her apology. And as he spoke, Lucia caught a glimpse of the man whom had charmed her on the night of the Coronation ball, the man who had seemed so seamless and sure of himself, yet there was something beneath. Those words he had spoken then were only the tip of a much deeper iceberg, only the beginning of what she hoped to learn and learn about the mage. When he spoke, she could be certain that his every word was sincere, wholly thought out, and said with purpose.

There was some difference now, as he refused to look at her, and upon her closer inspection, trembled slightly. And for some reason, Lucia felt as if she had been slapped. Soren. She had seen him on that night as drawing and mysterious, like a shadow whose presence was fleeting. She wished to know where those words he had spoken came from, what he had meant by them, what else he had to say. But it seemed, that in the recent events, the things that drew her to him had changed. There was something in his eyes that was different from the crimson gems that had captivated her then - they no longer allowed her a glimpse into the soul she had once seen, but had become guarded and shallow. Why had she not noticed before? This was her fault, for she was the one that had caused his shift in demeanor. No longer did he seek to speak with her, the very fact that she was in his presence was a miracle. Why had she turned from him and blindly sought another, to drum up jealousy when he was already hers?

She did not know what to say.

"…speaking terms, Lucia?" he offered, and his voice startled her out of her reverie.

She nodded once, and slowly. "I would like that, Soren. Very much."

He cleared his throat and looked aside, then took one step backwards, out of the room, and disappeared down the hall.


	14. Chapter 13

The impaled goose spun over the merrily crackling fire, the pale flesh slowly but surely turning a delicate, golden brown as a mouth watering aroma wafted into the air.

In a strange tandem, Geoffrey's thoughts turned over and over in his head while they darkened to less savory colors and stank with dismay.

More than once, the sinister violet of the Whispering Death - which had twice come near to cutting short the queen's life - flashed through his thoughts, bubbling with malevolent intensity while noxious vapors stung his mind's eye. He banished those dreadful musings; but fans of aqua, streaks of red and pin pricks of crimson flame surged in to replace them. And, he saw again the results of his sister's machinations, spiraling out of control just as Kieran himself had some hours before.

Then, however, a pair of teal suns shone through his turmoil and brought him back to the present.

As was often the case, Geoffrey felt a sense of gratification that Nephenee met his gaze squarely instead of hiding her eyes beneath her teal lashes...but, it faded when he noticed the look of worry on her tanned features.

"I'm sorry," he told her, suddenly finding himself averting his gaze. "I guess I have a lot on my mind."

"I can see that," Nephenee replied, quickly glancing behind her and then lowering her voice to a faint whisper. "It's about the queen, isn't it?"

The paladin replied with a humorless laugh, which caught the halberdier off guard. He'd almost welcome a _second_assassin if it meant that his sister, his second-in-command and the mage would get their collective heads mortared on straight, rather than clawing at each other's throats.

"Amongst other things," he replied, his voice also discreet. "Things have been...complicated lately."

"Must be," Nephenee noted, the corners of her mouth turning upward mischievously. "The goose is looking a bit crispy for my taste."

Geoffrey's expression faulted as he realized that, distracted as he was by his worries over what might be happening at the castle, he had allowed the turning spit to come to a halt. The underbelly of the goose, no longer spinning over the blazing hearth, was turning a much darker shade of brown and was near to charring. Swallowing a less-than-knightly remark, Geoffrey began rapidly turning the spit, hoping to salvage the wrongly cooked bird. He did notice, however, than Nephenee yet lingered before him, still eyeing him with an expression of curiosity and concern.

Geoffrey belatedly realized that he'd let slip that there was more to his anxiety than the Assassin, and nearly kicked himself for his loose tongue. Still, Nephenee's gaze softened his resistance and, taking care that they were not overheard, he relayed to her the events leading up to the altercation in the Council Chamber.

"Wow," Nephenee remarked when he had finished. "And, I thought you taking an interest in me was strange."

"You don't give yourself enough credit," Geoffrey remarked with a rakish smile, though his words carried an unmistakable air of sincerity.

Though he detected a hint of self-depreciation in Nephenee's remark - a habit he was quick to discourage nowadays - he _did_have to admit that their courtship had been unexpected. Geoffrey had long since earned the reputation of being a pillar of knightly virtue, and had unstintingly invested himself in upholding the honor of his rank. More than a few of those under his command had joked that the aqua haired paladin was married to chivalric code, while the rest joked that Geoffrey was too practical a man for such a thing...and was therefore married to his lance, or perhaps his armor.

Aside from a few retorts, Geoffrey had never argued the point...until the - quite literal - collision of fate that had brought Nephenee into his life.

He harkened back to their earlier visit to the lands surrounding Ohma, whose pristine grasslands and beautiful flowers had inspired the lyrics of the music so dear to the heart of both paladin and halberdier. It had been one of the few moments where - away from the chaos of establishing Elincia's reign and grieving for the late king and queen - that he had felt his burden lighten and his weariness lift. Nephenee - still quite shy with him, but no longer seeming like a rabbit ready to bolt away - had seemed rather taken aback when he'd remarked that there was no place else on Tellius that he would rather be. Perhaps it was her surprise at his words, or maybe she too had felt the relief and contentment which he did? Either way, she did not flinch when he rose to his feet, their hands still clasped.

The paladin had dipped into his customary bow but, halfway through the reflexive motion of kissing her hand, he instead pressed his lips upon her cheek.

Though Geoffrey had overstayed his welcome by then, and was due back at the capital, he made a point to ask if he'd be welcome to return. The halberdier's reply had been distorted by stammering, and Geoffrey might've missed some of the words while watching the charming blush on her cheeks, but he gathered that she would be delighted.

Geoffrey and Nephenee had seen each other sporadically in the days that followed, but he had returned from time to time and she had always greeted him with a smile. He'd met her family as well as a number of her friends and neighbors and, as time went on, the halberdier was never far from his thoughts. In the days leading up to the Coronation Ball, Calill had chanced upon the paladin while he oversaw the rebuilding of the capital, and she had made the "ingenious" suggestion that Geoffrey join her in encouraging Nephenee to attend the festivities. Geoffrey, for the first time since making the eccentric sage's acquaintance, did not object to her schemes. And, to his delight, Nephenee had accepted his entreaty.

That had been the beginning of an unusual courtship, but Geoffrey would not have traded Nephenee for any of the highborn ladies who'd gawked in bewilderment as the paladin had waltzed with a humble country maiden.

Nephenee, meanwhile, had been following that same train of thought.

Hers, however, took a less pleasant course as she recalled how Calill had "assisted" in preparing the bashful halberdier for the ball.

The eccentric sage had already subjected Nephenee to a number of lessons designed to make her a "proper lady" and, incredibly enough, it got worse when Calill had learned that her latest machinations were progressing so well. The earlier lessons with grammar and make-up and posture seemed almost a pittance compared to Calill's drilling about speech, table manners, how to greet this person and that person and, much to the halberdier's chagrin, dancing.

Nephenee had idly suspected that Calill was eager to get back at her protégée for seeing though the sage's facade of being a life-long sophisticated urbanite. And, it didn't help matters that Calill seemed only too happy to let Mae and the triplets get in on the act.

The matter of what to wear hadn't gone much better, what with the city ladies' bizarre fondness for corsets and high heeled shoes. Not to mention being prodded with pins and needles when an irresistible dress - according to Calill, at least - proved to be ill-fitting.

Within a week, Nephenee was at her wits end with being dragged to the boutique and being used as a pin cushion. Yet, at the same time, she found herself unwilling to retract her promise to attend the ball with Geoffrey. So, when the day of the ball finally arrived, she had resorted to a little trickery to escape the eccentric sage. She'd tricked Calill by telling her that the heel had broken on one of those atrocious shoes that the sage had insisted upon buying, waited until the sage was well away, and then went to the ball in her militia armor.

Calill had, of course, learned of the deception shortly thereafter, and she had never let her reluctant protégée hear the end of it.

Still, despite feeling more than a bit out of place among the elite power brokers of the kingdom, and terribly unkempt in her patchwork armor amidst all the silken gowns and gleaming armor, she felt far more keenly a sense of relief to have finally eluded Calill and an almost girlish eagerness to see Geoffrey again. When she saw a small army of silk-clad ladies encircling the paladin, however, she suddenly found herself fearing that disregarding Calill's advice would backfire on her. Yet, when Geoffrey finally escaped the tightening ring of ladies and found her, he betrayed no hint of disappointment or discomfiture that she had appeared to him so humbly garbed.

Instead, he had smiled, kissed her hand and asked her for a dance.

By the end of that evening, Nephenee was no less fascinated with the paladin than he was with her.

Hearing his tale this evening, however, had caused her much perplexity and worry. Nephenee had only met Lucia a few times, even after becoming engaged to marry Geoffrey, but the aqua haired swordmaster had seemed much akin to her younger brother.

Confident. Poised. Beloved. Loyal. Sophisticated. Attractive. Honorable. And, above all, forthright and honest.

The notion that Lucia would lead on Kieran - to win the attentions of _Soren_, of all people - was even more stupefying than Calill's fondness for those ridiculous high-heeled shoes she'd occasionally tried to force on the halberdier. And, Geoffrey, it seemed, was no less bemused.

"I just hope things haven't gotten worse while I've been gone," he remarked, still turning the spit in its unceasing orbit. "I'm getting really tired of going around in circles with those three."

The moment his ironic choice of words registered, the spit jerked to an abrupt halt and the engaged, odd couple burst into fits of laughter. By the time the hilarity had subsided, both were wiping tears of mirth from their eyes...to behold the upper portion of the goose blackening under the hearth's fury.

"I'd best join you," Nephenee had commented, moving alongside her fiancé - so close that their arms touched from shoulder to wrist - and seeming almost as surprised by her actions as Geoffrey himself. "You are too easily distracted."

"What else can I say?" Geoffrey replied, unable to conceal his delight at this new assertiveness on her part. "It's rather difficult to notice anything else when you're with me."

The halberdier had been about to make a teasing retort, but Geoffrey silenced her with a kiss...and whatever Nephenee had been about to say was forgotten as she heard the jabber of gagging, ewww's and childish sing-song from her siblings.

Not that she was paying much attention, of course. Geoffrey, too, made it hard for her to notice anything else.

Though Ma had been quick to reprimand her children for their rudeness, Geoffrey could not help but notice the discreet smile that played across the older woman's lips as she watched the couple kiss.

Ma's smile, it seemed, was contagious; for the rest of the evening had found Geoffrey in much better spirits...at least, for a time.

Thankfully, the goose had come away from its time over the fire better than Geoffrey had expected. The succulent bird flesh, burned dark but still delightful to the palette, made an excellent compliment to the rich and hearty beef stew which Cara had ladled into a collection of mismatched but well used bowls. Geoffrey, at Ma's insistence, had led the family in a succinct prayer of thanks that they could be together for the meal, followed by another in gratitude that they had all survived the war, and dinner had begun in earnest.

The paladin could not help but notice that Ma kept a wary eye on the triplets, and suddenly found himself suspecting that the table had been the epicenter of more than a few food fights in the past.

Given Ma's obvious, strict nature, he had to swallow a chuckle at his suppositions regarding how such contests assuredly ended.

Between bites, the paladin had politely asked about the doings in Ohma, and what he heard perplexed him.

There had been strange things happening in the rural corners of Crimea.

One thing which lent tiny Ohma its appeal, charming natives and outsiders alike, was its peaceful isolation and comforting changelessness. In a world which had seemed to be turning itself on its head over and over - what with the Mad King's War and the previously unheard-of effort to bridge the gap between the races - the unerring familiarity and quaint, homey atmosphere of Ohma acted as a reassurance that, despite the new and unfamiliar political winds, that which was both closer and more precious would nonetheless be retained.

Yet, change _had_come to Ohma.

At first, it had seemed innocuous enough. Owls and wild geese suddenly growing scarce, and livestock disappearing here and there; but, this wave of unwelcome alterations continued...and then had escalated.

Over the past few days, more and more animals had vanished inexplicably. And, more than a few of those who'd sought to reclaim the stray livestock had also disappeared.

Geoffrey had a grave supposition about what force might be behind these troubling occurrences and, when one of the triplets mentioned that a missing farm hand had been found, killed, he was certain of it.

The Assassin was lurking about.

A quick glance at Nephenee revealed that his fiancée had been following the same train of thought, and he could not hope to miss the way her tanned skin paled with terror. His hand slid under the table, grasping hers and laboring to channel unspoken reassure between their palms. Her hand gripped his in turn, with equal parts solidarity and worry.

Feeling his good mood slipping away, Geoffrey turned his gaze to Ma. Her weathered face, though as kindly and jovial as ever, had taken on a look of sheer iron when these troubling goings-on had been voiced. Though she yet wore the same smile which rarely seemed to leave her features, he could see an unmistakable fire crackling in her careworn eyes.

If the Assassin darkened her doorstep, seeking to add this copious family to his collection of victims, he'd find Ma to be worth the whole castle garrison.

That train of thought, however, led to another. Why was the Assassin stalking Ohma? The pastoral farmlands that the rural folk of Crimea called home was as far from the castle - and, incidentally, the Assassin's apparent target - as one could get. This oddity was made all the more bizarre since, as the events of the New Year's Ball proved, the Assassin could penetrate the castle itself. Thus, after Geoffrey and Kieran's interrogations and searches following the queen's brush with death had failed to produce the culprit, the castle's security had been tripled.

The Assassin had yet the challenge the castle's newly bolstered defenses and had, apparently, ranged elsewhere in search of prey.

But, why?

The deaths of a few farmers would aggrieve Elincia, for she held every citizen dear to her heart. But, if the Assassin sought to torture his victim in such a fashion before slaying her, then why had only one body been found? Why had the Assassin not made his mark clearer upon these sinister occurrences? That the Assassin might very well be behind the lost livestock made even less sense. In such an isolated community, far from the larger and more secure holdings of the heartland farmers, it was to be expected that livestock would go astray. If not for the lone farm hand who'd been slain trying to retrieve a lost animal, the whole affair might have been dismissed as a run of bad luck.

The paladin could understand such an assumption, for he had very nearly made it himself.

But, deep in his guts, he knew that there was worse going on than cattle and sheep going missing and young farm hands meeting tragic ends.

That violet of the Whispering Death in his mind, which he had so arduously pacified while at the spit, now simmered and boiled anew.

He was certain - and, apparently, so was Nephenee - that the envenomed blade of the Assassin was at work here.

Yet, despite that certainty, Geoffrey found himself confounded. While he could grasp the sickening logic of tormenting Elincia by targeting her people, the Assassin's patron was surely running out of patience by this time - especially considering the Assassin's earlier, and rather expensive, failures.

Why would the Assassin embark upon such an outlandish course, which took him far from his intended target, risking the displeasure of a powerful and dangerous client all the while?

Then, Geoffrey's heart leapt into his throat as a new musing came to him.

What if the queen _wasn't_the Assassin's only target?

What if the Assassin was also eager to strike at those dearest to the queen...such as her brother and future in-laws, who were now practically gift wrapped for the murderous fiend?

Geoffrey's eyes suddenly darted toward Nephenee, to Ma, to Cara and the other children...and then to the door, behind which the Assassin might very well be lurking.

The paladin was shaken from his reverie when the triplets all began talking at once. One wanted to know who the "bad guy" was, and what he looked like. Another wanted to know how Geoffrey was going to deal with him, and Geoffrey had to keep himself from being too candid in his reply. Still another wanted to know if they could be there to watch.

Unbidden, Geoffrey's mind painted an image of what such a childish imagining might look like if made real...and, the thought of what the Assassin might do with a small audience of potential hostages turned the paladin's guts to water.

But, to keep the young children from guessing too much, he wiped his face clean of distress and indulged their young fancies...deciding then and there that, if they did seek to become knights later in life, as he had earlier suspected that they might, this would be the last time he fed them a fanciful ballad that made no mention of the hardships and death which rode in the saddle with him.

If he was lucky, they'd reconsider. If not, then he could only hope that they possessed the same strength and constitution that Nephenee had displayed.

They might be needing it.

After a dessert of Beedle Nut Soufflé, which Nephenee barely remembered tasting with the terrible lump in her throat, she'd caught Cara's gaze.

Cara was at least five years Nephenee's junior, but they might as well have been twins, for the same concern tightened the faces of both sisters. Cara and Nephenee had been, in many ways, best friends as well as siblings; and Nephenee knew her sister well enough to see that Cara already saw that something was amiss.

And, Nephenee was forced to admit, that was a rather spectacular understatement.

The halberdier had, indeed, been following her fiancé's train of thought and, though she only knew a little about this fabled Assassin...

...what she did know chilled her to the bone.

In the twinkling of an eye, memories of Canteus Castle flooded over her. She remembered the ebon armored troops hurling her into the cell, as carelessly as if she were refuse - which, to their eyes, might have been the case - and how she'd curled up in a vain attempt to stay warm amidst the frigid stone. A cold worm of dread had burrowed, unseen, into her guts when she realized that she might never see her Ma, or her siblings, or her home, or even daylight again. She had refused to give up, whispering to herself that help would come, but the icy worm seemed determined to leech away what little resolve she'd had.

By some miracle, she had been rescued by Ike - soon to be _King_Ike, she absently recalled - and, by another miracle, she had lived to return home.

But, could she count on such good fortune a third time?

The pain of Pa's death - which had come long before his time, following a terrible bout with illness - was still fresh in her heart, and she could not bear the thought of burying any more of her family.

Yet, rather than spawning another cold worm of dread, the thought seemed to coil in upon itself, hardened and ignited. It blazed stronger and hotter, twisting and reforming into a brand of smoldering defiance, slicing through the chill dread that climbed her spine.

She had already fought for her family during the war, and she was prepared to do so again.

Geoffrey, however, seemed to have a different strategy in mind. And, sensing that Geoffrey preferred to discuss it in privacy, Nephenee suggested that Cara put Mae and the triplets to bed.

Again, Cara gave her elder sister that too-wise stare, which somehow spoke louder to Nephenee than the younger children's' protestations. Knowing that she couldn't tell Cara what was happening - and, in so doing, run the risk of sending the children into a panic - Nephenee tried to convey with her eyes that everything would be alright. But, she could see Cara shiver slightly. The same way she'd had when they were younger, after she'd woken from a nightmare.

Nephenee had always woken with her, hugged and soothed her until she could go back to sleep, and she could only hope that she'd get the opportunity to put this nightmare to rest as well. Permanently.

Once the engaged couple was alone with Ma, Geoffrey quickly outlined his strategy. To Nephenee's ears, still pounding with blood from her racing heart, it almost sounded as though he planned for the two of them to run away and leave her family to fend for themselves. But, after he'd cooled her incredulity with a gentle hand on her shoulder, he'd explained.

They weren't fleeing the Assassin. They were luring him away.

Still, Nephenee had some reservations about the idea, as did Ma. What if the Assassin didn't take the bait, and continued to stalk Ohma after the paladin and halberdier were gone? After a moment's pondering, Geoffrey came up with a rather unique solution. One which, even after all their time together, she had never anticipated.

"Once I get back to the castle, I'll send knights and horses to take you and the children to my estate," he informed Ma.

Ma's jaw plummeted; though, whether it was from the idea of abandoning her home or the notion of hiding out in the estate of a nobly born gentleman, Nephenee could not tell. Though, she had to admit, she felt no less astonished. Granted, she and Geoffrey had planned to live together after they were married, but the idea of leaving her home so suddenly - especially under such circumstances - knocked the breath from her lungs.

For a long, long moment, she let her gaze drift over the humble household. Her teal eyes alighted upon the table, which her grandparents had received as a wedding gift, and which she and Cara had set a thousand times for dinner. She beheld the wooden stools near the fire, one of which she'd carved herself...and therefore looked atrocious, but which she'd taken pride in nonetheless. The expanse of well worn floor where, as a tot, she'd roughhoused with her father back when he was healthy and happy. And, last but not least, she eyed the bedroom she'd shared with Cara - and, later, Mae - for as long as she could remember; reading them stories, and "scaring away" nightmares.

One memory after another touched her, and she suddenly felt afraid.

She had known, in the deepest recesses of herself, that marrying Geoffrey would mean leaving this place behind - not permanently, for Geoffrey was as fond of these lands as she was - but, the threat of the Assassin made that fact so much more..._real_.

Would this be the last time she saw this home she loved so much? And, more importantly, would Geoffrey's hastily drawn strategy keep the family she loved safe?

Despite her worries, she'd been able to follow her fiancé's explanation of the ruse he would use to lure the Assassin and, after a final wistful look at her home, the halberdier was ready to do her part.

Ma had assured the couple that she'd have the children ready for the journey - and, more importantly, unaware of the true circumstances behind it - and Nephenee had followed Geoffrey to his horse. Nephenee had rarely seen the beast up close, but she had seen her share of horses in her life; from draft horses and mules who pulled plows and wagons, to coursers and hunters who ran like the wind and flew over hurdles.

One glance at the radiant coat and powerful muscles was enough to convince her that the local stud farmer would have given his life savings for such a specimen as the one her fiancé rode.

Geoffrey had lifted Nephenee into the saddle, the halberdier instinctively tensing before relaxing in her fiancé's grip, before the paladin lifted himself atop the mighty warhorse. After a moment of settling into the stirrups - done with deliberate slowness to keep up a pretense of relaxed casualness - he heeled his mount to a leisurely gallop.

As they approached the woods, she felt a sudden chill wash over her; as though a cold, winter's night had lingered beyond its season.

Geoffrey had felt it too and, apparently, this was the sign he'd been waiting for. He gently squeezed her shoulder and, after flinching reflexively, the halberdier craned her neck to gaze up at him.

"So, what else is happening back at the castle?" Nephenee asked, picking up her cue.

"As well as can expected," Geoffrey replied, endeavoring to keep his tone blithe. "The Day of Mourning is hardly the sort of occasion one _wants_to be planning."

Geoffrey had instructed Nephenee to inquire about this occasion, which would be a period of soul searching and grieving upon the anniversary of Crimea falling to Ashnard. Geoffrey had hoped that this news might catch the Assassin's attention, and Nephenee thought she heard a shiver amongst the branches which loomed above them. That, she realized, could be the Assassin listening in, but the sound was so faint and so brief that she could not be certain.

"It just doesn't seem right," the halberdier went on, almost as much to distract herself from the prospect of the baiting a killer as to keep up the deception. "The queen doing this so close to her wedding?"

"I'm still trying to get over the prospect that it might not be just _her_wedding anymore," the paladin answered, prompting Nephenee to elbow him in the guts.

"You've only yourself to blame for that," she shot back; though, the halberdier had to admit, she was still wasn't used to the idea either.

Geoffrey had been quick to invite Nephenee to accompany him to the Yule Ball and, despite the threat of Calill's continued intervention, Nephenee had accepted. This time, however, Calill refused to be hoodwinked and had practically moved in with the halberdier's family, drilling her protégée day and night in all of the skills and behaviors of a "proper lady." Yet, when the work was finally done, Nephenee could feel a difference.

Though she was still humbly polite with others, she no longer felt as intimidated as she once did.

When she spoke in the tones that were deemed appropriate at a ball, the words and terminology began to come more easily.

And, where once dancing had been a greater chore that pulling the plow, she now felt like she was floating when she took to the dance floor.

Later, when she waltzed with Geoffrey, she felt like she was _flying_.

Calill hadn't been any more accommodating with the dresses than the last time around but, thankfully, she had at least done her job well. The dress Calill had picked out - a simple but elegant work of teal silk which shimmered in the candlelight like rhinestones - had been stunning. Calill had also styled Nephenee's hair - much to the halberdier's consternation - and had done the teal tresses up in a stylish bun with braided tendrils framing her face. When Nephenee had, reluctantly, stepped in front of the mirror once the work was done, she almost didn't recognize herself. Yet, as she carefully turned this way and that to study her reflection, she found herself liking what she saw. Even the triplets, who were of the opinion that all girls were ugly, had vaguely complimentary things to say about how their eldest sister looked.

Mae had commented that Nephenee looked like a princess, and Calill had underscored that remark by adding "Now, go get your prince!"

When Nephenee had arrived at the ball, however, her newfound delight gave away to an echo of the worry she'd felt when she arrived for the Coronation Ball. Would it have been better if she had come in her armor again? If Geoffrey didn't seem to care that she'd dressed humbly once, could dolling herself up prove to be a mistake?

Again, however, Geoffrey had proved her wrong.

They had danced once again, and only belatedly did Nephenee realize that the same people who had once looked on that same scene with confusion now eyed it with something resembling approval. Though, in truth, she noted this only absently.

It was Geoffrey who'd commanded her attention.

How many times, as a small girl, had she read children's stories about a lovely but lonely girl being swept away by a handsome prince? Too many to count but, at the time, she'd told herself that she was neither lovely nor lonely.

Yet, she had been wrong on both counts.

In that moment, for the first time in her life, she _did_feel beautiful. And, though she was so often surrounded by her large family, she realized that she truly had been lonely. Her father's untimely death had left her with a heavy burden to shoulder and, for the most part, she had borne it in the lonely solitude of being the one person whom everyone depended on.

Ever since her father died, she'd had no one she could rely on in turn, nor anyone who made her feel special, exactly as she was.

Then, she'd met Geoffrey.

After he had escorted her home, she was still whirling as though the dance had never ended, before plopping onto her bed. Spent, but happy, she was lulled to sleep by Mae and triplets' rendition of "Nephie's got a boyfriend."

Calill - who was still a guest in the house - had, naturally, been delighted with the implication.

And, it seemed, Geoffrey had reached the same conclusion. Because, the next time he'd been about to place a knightly kiss on her hand, he'd abandoned the reflexive act and instead crushed his lips against hers. His kiss, though chaste, smoldered with the passion he typically kept ensconced within the armor of a paladin; secret from all but those who knew him best. She could taste the essence of him in that probing tongue, the man beneath the iron who, seemingly untouchable to so many, was still a man.

Not the man who every knight, from squires to veterans, aspired to be; nor the man who was the most implacable defender of the Crimean throne; but simply, Geoffrey.

A man who, for all his fame and skill in battle, had discovered that which he wished for most in life in a simple country maiden whom, by the inscrutable dictates of the heart, he loved dearly. Nephenee had matched his passion, letting him see the humble girl who had shouldered responsibilities beyond her years and who had, until meeting her handsome prince, not even realized that her life had been slipping through her fingers until they had met.

Not long after, the pair had gone before Elincia and informed the queen of their intent to wed.

At the time, Geoffrey had simply sought his liege's blessing to marry - at which point, he would arrange a small, intimate ceremony - but, he had gotten more than he'd bargained for.

Much, _much_more.

Elincia, reacting almost giddily, had declared that her beloved brother would have a wedding no less lavish that the queen's own. In fact, Elincia was reportedly toying with the idea of having Geoffrey and Nephenee wed alongside herself and Ike.

Nephenee hadn't needed to glance over at Geoffrey to see the look of slack-jawed astonishment on his face. After all, she was wearing one just like it.

In hindsight, Nephenee supposed they should have anticipated what had happened. Even in the wake of her rescue from Canteus Castle, when Nephenee had first seen this princess that no one had ever heard of, she could almost feel how Elincia seemed to radiate kindness and generosity. And, that recollection caused the brand of determination in her guts to glow brighter as she recalled the villain who sought the life of her benevolent, future sister-in-law.

"So, how does this Day of Mourning go?" she asked, straining her ears for any sound of the Assassin pursuing them.

"She'll be garbed in black, as a sign of mourning for her parents," Geoffrey replied, seeming to force his eyes not to tellingly stray from side to side. "I know Ike will be alongside her and will deliver a speech. Since he became such an avid supporter of King Ramon's work in reconciliation between the beorc and the laguz, I imagine he'll have a lot to say."

A cold, almost fetid wind wafted overhead, so close that Nephenee stiffened reflexively. Yet, despite the chill, she felt her face flush with mingled anticipation and anxiety. The Assassin, she was certain, was nearby.

"The speech will be given at high noon, from the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard," Geoffrey went on, his voice impossibly calm. "It's sure to be well attended, since this is Ike's - maybe I should start saying _King_Ike's - debut in the realm of statesmanship. I'll bet he's terrified."

"Oh, he can do it," Nephenee retorted. "Don't you remember that speech he gave, just before the Liberation of Melior? It was inspired! I don't doubt for a minute that Ike and Elincia are the best people to rule this country."

A strange sound reached Nephenee's ear at that moment, almost like a growl that softened into a sibilant hiss half way through. The halberdier, instinctively trying to follow the sound, met Geoffrey's face as he nodded.

Not just in agreement, but encouragement.

Her eyes bulging in realization of what the paladin had in mind, the halberdier went on.

"I'd like to see this Assassin try to take Ike," Nephenee opined, making sure that her words were saturated with admiration. "I mean, _King_Ike. A new silver lance says that Ike tears him to pieces in two minutes flat."

"I'd wager forty five seconds," Geoffrey replied, a conspiratorial smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "But, that's assuming this villain even shows up. I've dealt with Assassins before and, by and large, most of them are cowards. This one doesn't even have the backbone to strike at his target face-to-face."

The branches above shivered again, more violently this time, and Nephenee suddenly found herself wondering if they were carrying this ruse a bit too far. Granted, she had vowed to do everything she could to make sure the Assassin followed them back to the castle, rather than take note of their chatter and then double back to Ohma to stalk her family and neighbors, but these jibes might very well provoke the Assassin to strike against the couple then and there...

...but, if he did so, Nephenee might have the chance to end this threat to her family this very night.

"I say he'll be there," she declared, laboring to make her tone sarcastic rather than overtly challenging. "Oh, and a Beedle Nut Soufflé says he'll soil himself when he sees _King_Ike charging for him."

"You're on," Geoffrey replied.

While Nephenee studied her fiance's face, almost losing herself in his strong, regal features, she could not help but notice a darting glint amongst the treetops that had begun to chase their flight to the castle. And, as she crushed her lips against Geoffrey's, she could feel the ire roiling above them.

The Assassin had taken the bait.

If there was anything Geoffrey had learned over the years, it was that there was no rest for the wicked.

He knew that baiting the Assassin into returning to the castle was a calculated risk, and that he'd be facing some hard questions about why he'd resorted to obliquely goading a hired killer into striking at the queen. But, faced with the threat posed to his in-laws and the continued friction here at the castle, he felt he'd done the only thing he could.

Hopefully, the threat he'd just lured onto their doorstep would force Kieran, Lucia and Soren to cease their feud and focus on preventing the Assassin from adding Elincia to those whom would be mourned upon the anniversary of Crimea's darkest hour.

Knowing he'd have to work fast, he guided his warhorse into the royal stables - still with a casual air, in case the Assassin was still watching - and dismounted. He'd crushed her lips against his fiancée's and whispered that she was to walk, not run, to the throne room and tell Elincia that he would be along soon to discuss an urgent matter.

Just as she sauntered off, however, Geoffrey realized that they were not alone in the stables.

Leaning against the far wall, his eyes downcast, was Kieran.

For a moment, however, Geoffrey did not recognize him.

Kieran, usually boisterous with being alive and vocal enough for the entire platoon he commanded, was sullen and silent. He didn't look good either. His eyes were raw and red, while his face looked swollen and glistened with more than the usual sweat of his rigorous training.

Geoffrey recalled his supposition that his luring the Assassin back to the castle might serve to straighten up his wayward second-in-command and, muttering something to the effect of "Me and my big mouth," moved to test that theory.

When Geoffrey drew close - and where Kieran usually snapped to attention, but this time remained unmoving - the paladin sensed that he had his work cut out for him.

Kieran's eyes were focused on something beyond Geoffrey's vision but, when the paladin cleared his throat, the red armored knight roused and snapped to attention.

"Been training?" Geoffrey asked, still trying to sound as though nothing were untoward in case the Assassin was still close by.

"...been thinking," Kieran answered, after a long pause. "I've had...a lot on my mind lately."

"I can imagine," the paladin opined, though his tone held neither incredulity or sarcasm.

"I...," Kieran's words trailed off as he, almost ashamedly, averted his gaze, "I owe you an apology, sir. I know what happened has...complicated things."

"Your gift for understatement is quite remarkable," Geoffrey retorted, incredulity being apparent this time. "You insulted a fellow retainer, attacked the queen's fiancé, and disobeyed my direct orders; all while we have an Assassin seeking our liege's death!"

The red armored knight lifted eyes no less crimson to meet the paladin's gaze, his face a battered and yet frozen mask of controlled agony.

"I know," he replied, his voice almost toneless. "And, I know that nothing..._she_has done can excuse my actions-"

"You're right, they don't," the paladin cut him off, though he allowed his voice to soften slightly. "As your superior, I should relieve you of your post and suspend you from service. Perhaps even expel you from the knighthood altogether."

Though Kieran's expression did not change, Geoffrey could sense that the red knight would have found a dagger through the guts to be less painful than the notion of his knighthood ending so ingloriously. That unseen pain stirred a sense of empathy in Geoffrey.

Like the paladin himself, Kieran had believed himself a man complete and unto himself; content with the duties and honors of his knighthood.

But, when Geoffrey had met Nephenee and Kieran had begun what he thought was a courtship with Lucia, both had learned just how truly lacking their lives were without someone to share them with.

Geoffrey had found himself wondering whether he would have fared any better than Kieran, had Nephenee done as Lucia did. And, suspecting what the answer might be, the paladin clapped a hand on the red knight's shoulder.

"But, as your friend, I understand why this happened," he said, feelingly. "And, I already know the queen does as well. I spoke with her, just before I left, and she has already forgiven you."

"Goddess bless her," Kieran whispered, unable to hide the relief in his tone nor stifle what sounded like a sniffle.

"I _will_make sure Lucia accounts for what she has done," Geoffrey vowed. "And, conversely, you too will be made to answer for your actions. But, that will have to wait. Our liege is still in danger and, soon, we will be called upon to defend her with all our strength. I need you, my friend. Now, more than ever. Can I count on you to uphold your honor and fulfill your duty?"

Kieran straightened and, at last, there was a hint of that usual, slightly manic, light in his eye.

"I will do my best," he promised.


	15. Chapter 14a

"This just seems like a horrible idea."

Ike frowned deeply, crossing his arms over his massive chest and heaving a loud sigh. The plan to, finally, ensnare the assassin was simple and straightforward – he was to walk out onto the balcony, with Lucia, who would be disguised as Elincia. There would be an audience gathered in the courtyard beneath the balcony - consisting of not only the normal retinue of nobles and lords, but the  
common populace of Melior as well - gathered for a rare public appearance by their future King.

_Not rare enough, from where I'm sitting! _Ike mused sourly.

Ike would be giving a speech to this, undoubtedly vast, audience on what had come to be known as the Day of Mourning; a day of soul-searching and reflection commemorating the fall of Crimea, and the death of Elincia's parents. In truth, he hadn't had much to say at all. Though he had been the commanding general of the army that had taken Crimea back from Daein, he had not been in Melior when she fell. He did not know the city as it had been before Ashnard had assailed it, nor had he known the people who had lost their lives that day. And, what words he had to offer for those who lived with the consequences of these terrible events sounded small and rang hallow in his mind.

Even without the daunting task of trying to offer succor to a crowd of mournful strangers, public speaking wasn't his strong suit at any rate. He only had three speeches under his belt to date, and he was expected to address the whole city! If the whispered gossip from the castle servants was to be believed, Ike might very well be speaking to an audience of hundreds, perhaps even _thousands_ of people! And, if that stress wasn't enough, it was _nothing_compared to what he would actually be doing.

The true purpose of his speech, and the presence of the decoy Elincia, was to present the assassin with a target he could not afford to ignore.

Much though he wanted to punish the villain who'd sought his fiancée's life, he didn't want to be the one to stand by the bait of the trap. The notion of standing there, giving a speech, while the woman posing as Elincia – his future sister-in-law – waited at his side in dutiful silence to be attacked, maybe even killed, repulsed him. Yet, he felt powerless to do anything…

He hoped, desperately, that the Day of Mourning would see no more lost lives to be mourned. But, his instincts as a commander pointed out that such was foolishness. Between the characteristically methodical and flawless planning that was to be expected of Soren, and Geoffrey and Nephenee laying out the bait while returning from Ohma, it seemed impossible that there could be another outcome besides the assassin making an appearance and seeking blood. Everything, down to the last detail, was already in place, and could not be changed at this late hour without disastrous consequences. Whether he liked it or not, Ike would have to stand by Lucia. He would have much preferred to be with Elincia, especially to act as a last line of defense if things went awry, but he had been forcibly convinced to play his part in this deadly game. Lucia, he'd been warned, would not seem convincing to the assassin if her fiancé, who was known to never be far from her side, was nowhere in sight. Besides which, if Lucia gave the speech herself, then the deception would fail at once. Thus, whether Ike liked it or not, he would have to speak to the populace of Crimea, standing before them not as their beloved war hero, but as their King.

He would have to stand there as Lucia took the blow meant for his fiancée...which, in all likelihood, would mean her death.

Lucia was more than willing - _too_willing, in Ike's opinion - and he found himself wondering if she was truly aware of what she was facing. Did she simply view this as being the "right" thing to do for her country, or for a woman she loved as a sister? Perhaps she only thought of this as some sort of penance by which to salvage her honor, which had surely been sullied by how her machinations had hurt Soren and Kieran? Had she even thought about the prospect of her own death at all?

Ike had thought of just how easily one's life could be cut short; many times, in fact, since his father's passing. He had come to terms with the death of not only his father, but his mother, whom he had barely known but had been stolen away by tragedy. He had witnessed the death of many during the war, friends and foes alike. And, it was through the death of one Mad King that Ike had restored Crimea to her rightful Queen and brought justice upon the man who'd made both him and his fiancée orphans. Yet, ironically, the man who had seen so much death, and who dealt it with incomparable skill and ease, had not grown numb to the horrors of such carnage. Quite the opposite, in fact; for there had been times where he had felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the bloodshed, and thought that he couldn't possibly go on. In some of his darkest moments, he had nearly wished for death to take him… but, he had survived. By some miracle, he had survived, again and again, where so many others had not been so fortunate.

But now, his only wish was for whatever charms, or enchantments, or blessings which the goddess had placed upon him to be passed on. For, if he could protect those he cared about, it didn't matter if he was the one to die. He would go next, if it meant that everyone else would be safe.

Of course, he wished even more fervently that none of this had ever happened.

"A horrible idea?"

The King-to-be turned to meet the eyes of the two others in the room. Both had frowned deeply at hearing his comment, but it had not been the tactician who had spoken. Ike turned to explain his reasoning to Geoffrey.

"Someone is going to die."

And, even as he said the words, he felt the truth behind them weigh upon him. For all their meticulous planning, the irresistible bait they would lay out, and the precautions they had taken, Ike was suddenly gravely certain that a life would be given - most likely, Lucia's - in order to halt the assassin's rampage. The Queen's brother sighed, running a hand through his hair, while his eyes darkened with worry. And, Ike could understand why.  
After all, by luring the assassin away from Nephenee and her family, Geoffrey had also ensured that the assassin would be here with an envenomed dagger poised at his older sister.

Ike hadn't exactly been pleased when Geoffrey had informed him and Elincia of what he'd done, but, Ike could not bring himself to fault the paladin for his actions. After all, Ike likely would have done the same thing if the assassin had been skulking about near the Greil Mercenaries' fort.

Ike felt almost heartened, however, when he saw the conflict on Geoffrey's face, but the other man in the room was quick to step in and offer reassurances.

"Ike, we have to do this, for the sake of the Queen. We need you to perform your role – everyone else is doing the same. Without your part, the plan will fail. Do not worry about anything else. Lucia will be by your side the whole time. Mist and I will be just inside, with our heal staves at the ready."

"Soren, she's going to be killed."

"You are taking the same risk as she, Ike."

"I almost feel better, knowing that."

Soren frowned and his eyebrows dipped towards one another. It was an expression Ike didn't see often, but he could read the mage better than anyone – Soren was, impossible though it might seem, confused.

"Twice the bait," Ike explained, "Twice the security for Elincia."

The mage sighed and shook his head. "Ike, Elincia will be just fine. She will be kept safely under guard the whole time."

"You've told me that thousands of times. It doesn't make me stop worrying, can't you see that?"

"Ike, you have to understand—"

"Kieran will be the only one patrolling the halls! Geoffrey and Nephenee will be guarding the main entrance, but this assassin… do you think he's just going to try and walk inside through the front door? Couldn't we put some of the palace guard inside? We already know this guy has gotten in before. It just doesn't seem right… it's not enough!"

"Ike, the normal retinue of guards will be among the crowd, keeping an eye out for the assassin. You are correct – the assassin will not come in through the front door. We know he can get into the castle but, since we can predict where he will be and when, we will have the advantage. He will be stopped before he even gets close to Elincia. Hopefully, before he gets close to you, or anyone else, either. All you should worry about is playing your role well."

Ike fell silent after this, lost in his own thoughts as Geoffrey and Soren helped him prepare for his speech. Geoffery, showing a rare trace of humor in so doing, helped Ike to figure out the baffling outfit he had to wear – there were so many things that Ike had to pay attention to that he would've never dreamed of… which side his sash draped over, how much motion he could make with his arms without being improper, reminding him to keep his hands away from his face and stand straight and tall…

And, those tasseled shoulder pads...they just _made no sense!_

While Geoffrey drilled Ike on court etiquette, Soren had him run over the main points of his speech. It was much longer than Ike would have preferred… but then, if their trap worked, he probably wouldn't have to say the whole thing. This sent his thoughts turning back upon themselves, and he was once again feeling as apprehensive as he had moments before.

"I don't want to do this," he voiced.

"I never thought I'd see this day," Soren blurted, sounding indignant. "Ike, _Hero_ of the Mad King's War and _Savior_ of Crimea, the _epitome_ of strength, who shed nary a tear even after the death of his _own father…_afraid?"

"Soren, I…"

"Ike, stop talking. We're getting nowhere. You're ready, all right? There's nothing else to do but… talk. Can't you accept that?"

When Ike didn't reply, Soren resorted to further measures. He turned to the wardrobe nearby and pulled out a small box, which made soft clinking noises as he carried it back toward his reluctant friend.

"Or, is Ike, who has earned the Legion of Service for escorting Queen Elincia to Gallia, a Purple Heart for surviving the siege of Gebal Castle, a Bronze Star for rescuing the Crimean prisoners-of-war from Canteus Castle, the Meritorious Unit Commendation for getting Elincia to Begnion, despite the challenges he faced against the relentless pursuit of the Daein army and the… _political system_of the Empire…"

At this point, Geoffrey figured out what Soren was doing, and joined in. "Ike, who has been awarded the Imperial Order of Serenes for rescuing Reyson and Leanne from Duke Tanas, the Medal of Valor for capturing Tor Garen, a Golden Heart for aiding the Talregan refugees…"

Soren dug around in the little box and came up with a handful of additional awards, and began pinning them to the sash Ike wore, adding them to the growing number of commendations which had already been heaped upon the humble mercenary. "A Distinguished Service Cross for capturing Nevassa, a Silver Star for defeating Petrine at the Riven Bridge…"

Geoffrey was quick to pin on the next one, a smile on his face as Ike twitched slightly – was that a smile on his face that Geoffrey saw? "The Order of Renning for rescuing the troops under my command at Delbray Castle," Geoffrey paused for a moment, then whispered "Thank you, by the way," in a softer tone, at which Ike's smile grew.

"The Laguz Alliance Medal," Soren continued, "awarded to you for linking up the Crimean Liberation Army with the Gallian Army. …though really, that was _my_strategy," the tactician jibed. Ike laughed.

"Keep that one, then, I have enough!" he retorted. The mage's reply was another jab in the chest...with both his words and the pin of the next medal.

"The Medal of Conspicuous Gallantry, for defeating the Black Knight," he said, making a point of pinning that one a little higher than the others. Ike looked at it for a moment, something akin to satisfaction on his face. Soren reached into the box one more time.

"And, the rare and coveted Royal Medal of Honor, awarded only to the finest of soldiers and knights, for defeating Ashnard here, in Melior," he finished. He leaned back slightly to stare Ike in the face, "Now, Ike… are you telling me that, in the very same garden where you ended the war and saved Crimea, you are refusing to help her now?"

Ike could feel the weight upon his chest steadily growing during Soren's speech, and not just because having all those medals pinned on made him feel ready to topple forward from their combined weight. Still, he had to - once again - give Soren credit. The dour mage, despite his seeming coldness, could be remarkably persuasive when he so chose. And, Ike had to admit, the barbs from the dour mage and the paladin had, indeed, stoked a fire in Ike's blood.

He had hoped that his unexpected reign would be a peaceful one. But, if he had to serve his people and the woman he loved as a warrior one last time, he would do so.

"...You're very convincing, you know that?" Ike asked, a smile on his face as he pulled his best friend closer for a quick hug. The mage gave a muffled sound of protest, and Ike let go, but Soren seemed unable to draw back. Geoffrey, whose eyes were a bit keener than Ike's laughed loudly.

"Ike, your Medal of Conspicuous Gallantry is stuck in my hair," Soren said, crossing his arms as Ike only laughed and moved to untangle him from the pin.

"Thank you, Soren," Ike said. Soren waved off the comment, but Ike wasn't finished yet.  
"You've always been there, you know? My little shadow… I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Drop dead?" Soren suggested with sardonic humor.

"Ha, ha, very funny," the King-to-be remarked, then cleared his throat, before saying, "I just want everyone to be safe."

"Anything else would be incredibly odd for you," Soren responded curtly. Ike held up his hand to forestall any other friendly jibes, then continued.

"Soren, please… I just want her to be safe."

"I know."

"Mist is a wonderful healer, and even _if_ she could do nothing… I think Lucia and I are both prepared to accept whatever happens to us. Could… _would_you…"

"Out with it already," Soren blurted impatiently, crossing his arms in an attempt hurry this up – there wasn't much time left.

"Will you join Kieran, and guard Elincia? For me?" Ike clasped Soren's shoulders when a dubious expression crossed his face, trying to urge the mage to agree. "You're my best friend in the world, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather trust to guard her when I cannot. Will you do this for me? Will you protect Elincia?"

The mage sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Have you any idea how convincing _you_are? Ike… Yes, I will."

Ike sighed, feeling as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders, even if his medal-laden front still felt like it weighed more than a warhorse. "Thank you, Soren. You don't know how much this means to me."

"It's fine, Ike. I will do my best. And, I expect you to, as well."

The King-to-be opened his mouth to reply, but Geoffrey interrupted. "Ike, it's time to go. Your public awaits."

Ike smiled nervously. "Wish me luck, Soren."

"You know I don't believe in such things. But, I believe in you. Everything will be all right, Ike. Don't worry."

"I'll do my best."

Ike clapped a hand to his friend's shoulder and gave it a comradely squeeze, then moved off down the hall. Whatever happened now was out of his hands. All he could do was hope that nothing would go wrong.

* * *

The Day of Mourning had dawned, with some perverse appropriateness, in a somber and cheerless fashion.

Though the sun blazed high in the sky, the disc of golden fire offered little warmth to those below. The first spring rain had lost no time in coming, and a veritable deluge had swept in the previous night. Dark, leaden clouds had billowed in, and unleashed torrents of rain upon Melior from dusk to dawn. Though the downpour had ceased some hours before, it yet left a lingering impression on the city.

The cobblestone streets were dotted with puddles of standing water - much to the delight of more than a few youngsters who, much to the horror of their parents, splashed in them with reckless abandon. Less endearing reminders included the clotheslines that had been torn from their high spans between the buildings, leaving the clothing that had dangled from them soaked and caked with dirt and grime. Bits of roof shingles and window shutters had also been torn free and scattered by the elements, as if the city was some toy that a massive, petulant child had sought to dismantle.

The people had fared little better. Many of them had been roused from their slumber by the deluge, and had found returning to sleep impossible with the persistent cacophony which echoed from every direction. Thus, they had resolved to wait for the rain to let up and whiled away the time as best they could.

Inevitably, thoughts of the morrow intruded upon their long waits for blessed silence; and, these thoughts proved to be disconcerting company.

King Ramon, whose passing would be commemorated the following day, had long been a provocative figure. When he had first taken the throne, more than three decades prior, his decision to forge an alliance with the laguz had, indeed, been quite thought provoking.  
At the time, those thoughts had predominantly been of a particularly disquieted and violent nature.

Yet, though so many were bewildered and repulsed that their King would seek to ally with the "sub-humans", there was no suppressing a strange fascination and a begrudging respect for the courage and persistence of the monarch's seemingly mistaken convictions.

And now, nearly two years after his death, Ramon was still a figure whose power to make others think reached out from beyond the grave.

Thus, where there had once a great seething over the King's seeming madness, and unflattering thoughts with regard to his motives, there was now a contemplative, if precarious, calm.

After the people had seen the woman who was now their Queen, and the general who would soon be their King, crash down upon Ashnard's army amidst a vanguard of laguz allies, the once disparaging thoughts regarding Ramon's designs had turned in a new, if confusing, direction.

Could the seeming madness of allying with the "sub-humans" not have been madness at all?  
Were the "sub-humans" - or, as a sizable number of people had taken to calling them, the laguz - not the vicious beasts that lurked in darkness to devour the unwary?  
These questions weighed upon many a sleepless mind that night, and upon many a drowsy mind the following morning. There were still plenty who were distrustful of Crimea's newfound allies, always fearing that this seeming alliance was a prelude to the same exploitation that Daein had brought upon Crimea during Ashnard's brief reign. However, there were also many who were adamantly convinced that building ties with the laguz was the right thing to do, and was in Crimea's best interests; not the least of whom being the engaged royal couple, whom even the opposition feared to publically besmirch.

Now, both sides of the debate, and the vast throng of people who were as yet undecided which course to take, gathered in the castle courtyard. One might have likened this to a truce in the midst of a heated, if bloodless, conflict; but, if this was so, then the truce was an uneasy one. More than a few from each side fixed their opponents with sidelong glances; their expressions purposefully blank, but their eyes betraying their mutual antipathy. And, no small number of those who were undecided glanced warily from side to side, as though expecting a confrontation to erupt at any moment.

Yet, amidst all this stifled, voiceless tension was...something else.

What it was, none present could say. It wafted from one person to another; like a chill breeze that chained from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, from nape to nape, and from ear to ear. It came so suddenly, and so fleetingly, that none could be certain where it had come from. And then, it vanished again; so swiftly, that those who felt it wondered if they might have imagined it. The strange chill touched one man, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end; then chained to a nearly drowsing woman, causing her to suddenly jolt awake with a gasp and a start. This sensation rippled from one end of the crowd to the next, leaving wide, roving gazes and ragged breaths in its wake. Yet, when the moment passed, those it touched found themselves at a loss as to what had alarmed them so; and, thus, inwardly chided themselves for their nerves and continued awaiting their future King's appearance.

However, that which had caused their sudden, inexplicable alarm was quite real...and still lurked close by.

Within the cool shadow of a rain slick pillar lurked another shadow. Deeper, darker, cold and fathomless.

A trio of lights - an eerily pale orb and two liquid gems, as deep and as cold as the endless sea - glinted within the darkness like those of the "sub-humans" in so many a frightening campfire tale.

Yet, this was no laguz. Nor was it a beorc.

The strange, unseen figure in the shadow of the pillar remained impossibly still; woven into the darkness so deftly, that a man could not tell that he wasn't part of the pillar without first blundering into him.

This was fortunate. If the strange figure could be seen clearly, it might have raised more than a few awkward questions about why he had hidden himself thus when, of all people, a man of the cloth surely was invited.

But, this was no man of the cloth.

Nor had he been invited...at least, not in the...traditional way.

He spared a glance towards the main entrance, where the queen's brother and his bride-to-be flanked the gates and greeted those still trickling in.

He would have to thank them for the...memorable way they had extended the invitation for him to attend.

Perhaps he would do so by killing them last?

_"You have done well, Chimera and Serpent,"_ the voice of Death complimented. _"Our disguise has allowed us to penetrate the castle with ease."_

_"Then, let us do what we came here to do!"_ the Predator roared impatiently. _"Let us have the Queen's head!"_

_"No, no, you ssssilly creature!"_ the Serpent hissed disparagingly. _"Let ussss strike down both monarchssss before the stunned populace! Let them ssssee that even the mightiesssst of heroes is powerlessss against ussss!"_

_"Your scheming and fizzing tries my patience!"_the Predator retorted.

_"And, your infantile whining tries mine!"_ the Wolf snarled. _"Something is wrong; we got in too easily. Even on this Day of Mourning, the castle's defenses should not be so lax."_

_"You see opportunity and cower!"_the Predator taunted.

_"I see more than you could, had you a hundred eyes! I warned you all, the taunting of the paladin and the halberdier could be bait for a trap."_

_"Which is why we came prepared,"_ the Chimera broke in, cutting off a furious tirade from the Predator. _"With concealment, disguise and Harbinger, we will overcome any snare."_

_"And so, we shall,"_ Death spoke again. _"Make no mistake, my incarnations. Each of us has been wronged, humiliated and insulted by the upstart wench and her underlings. Whether we were lured here or not is of no consequence. With our combined strengths, and the power of Harbinger, we will finally have our vengeance!"_

Five voices, all spawned from nightmares, seemed to cackle in unison at the prospect of the bloodshed to come.

Thus - fortified by the patience and stealth of the Chimera, the courage and viciousness of the Predator, the sharp eyes and keen wits of the Wolf and the deceitfulness and lethality of the Serpent - Death waited in cold, impenetrable darkness for its prey to finally come within reach.

Whether the upstart Queen and the churl whose ring she wore appeared in an hour, or a day, or even a year, it mattered not. For Death had both the patience and inevitability of his namesake.

And, he would not be denied.

An excited murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by a thunderous outpouring of cheers and applause. Death turned his gaze upward, and an arc of yellowed ivory shone in the shadows as the churl strode onto a stone balcony, situated far above the jubilant audience...

...but, well within reach of Death's envenomed blade and well-practiced throwing arm.

Death and his incarnations listened with abstracted lack of interest as the churl spoke of the late King Ramon - a man whom the churl had never met, and yet admired more and more with each passing day - and the ongoing work to bring the beorc and laguz into peaceful coexistence.

Death found this last point rather amusing. After all, if the beorc and laguz could coexist, wouldn't he have turned out...differently?

Yet now, with all the power of the ultimate force of nature ensconced within his very flesh, Death found he had little cause for complaint.

As the churl rambled on, Death studied his target. Neither the life of being a Queen's fiancé, nor possessing the combined appetite of twelve men, had softened the former commanding general of the Crimean Liberation Army. If anything, the brawny young man seemed even more imposing than he had before...at least, by a normal man's standards.  
Death was far from a normal man, but he could appreciate the obvious strength in the churl's burly, muscular frame; as well as how the numerous medals dotting the sash across his breast offered mute testimony regarding just how many had tried and failed to do what Death now planned.

Unlike them, however, Death would not be turned aside from his due.

The baleful glare then fixed upon the upstart Queen. Death had to warn the Predator against a barking laugh at the...appropriateness of her attire.

Garbed in black and veiled, she looked quite the part of a mournful lady at a funeral.

Soon enough, however, that funeral would be her own.

Death studied the upstart Queen as she stood silently beside her fiancé, her head bowed in grief and humility, yet seeming more to Death as though her neck was stretched upon the block and waiting for the executioner's decapitating blow. The Predator's jaws gnashed with anticipation while the Serpent's fangs dripped venom, eager for the kill. The Chimera, patient as always, awaited the command to spring from its hiding place and strike the final blow. And...

...and, the Wolf howled a warning.

_"Something is wrong!"_he barked.

_"Oh, you always say that!"_the Predator snapped, his tone saturated with contempt.

_"And, I say it because it is true! She does not smell right."_

_"Perhaps she and the churl did not wait to...shall we say, roll in the sheets?"_

_"Silence, both of you!_Death commanded, his own gaze turning toward the figures standing upon the balcony.

Knowing better than to dismiss the Wolf's keen eyes and sensitive nose, Death reigned in his anticipation and stared again at the offending couple above.

The Wolf _did_warn that the paladin and halberdier might have been baiting a trap, and Death decided to test that notion.

The churl's deluded prattle sounded no less ludicrous than it had a moment ago, but the churl himself _did_sound different.

It sounded like he was repeating himself. And, like he was drifting from one point to the next without rhyme or reason, and then doubling back upon himself, as though his thoughts were utterly jumbled. More curious still, he was tripping over his words and stammering.  
Most remarkable, on this day - which was almost as chilled as the winter which had recently ended - the churl was _sweating_. Fumes of tension and worry, nearly as pungent as the churl himself, tickled at the nostrils of Death and his incarnations.  
For once, even the Predator remained silent. For all his eagerness for the kill, he could clearly see that there was far more than stage fright at work with the churl's sudden incoherence.

Death's gaze locked upon the Queen as well, and her oddities were also glaring.

Though her posture and garb did not betray whatever secret they might be concealing, her distance from the churl did. The Chimera, the Predator and the Wolf - and, by extension, Death - recalled with nauseating clarity how the upstart Queen and the churl had been practically joined at the hip even since the Coronation Ball. Every time they'd been seen by Death's incarnations, they'd been kissing and gallivanting about with the feverish passion of young lovers. Yet now, the two remained at arm's length...if even.

More curious still, when the churl reached out to clasp her hand, he did so with a split-second of hesitation. It was so fleeting, that an ordinary man would have missed it entirely. And, when his fingers curled about those of his fiancée, she straightened, tensed, and nearly wrenched away from his grasp.

And, when she straightened, Death saw through the ruse.

The upstart Queen, he knew, was nearly a head shorter than the churl. Yet, the woman who now stood beside him was at least an inch or two taller than him!

_"That is not the Queen!"_ the Wolf snarled. _"We have been baited into a trap!"_

_"Do not sound sssso defeatist!"_ the Serpent interjected. _"We have sssseen through the ruse, and we have not yet been detected. I say, if our quarry will not come to ussss, then we shall go to her!"_

_"Finally, someone who talks sense!"_ the Predator chortled in feral delight. _"We will ferret her out, and have our revenge at last!"_

_"And, where do you propose we begin looking?_ the Wolf snapped, irritated. _"She could be just about anywhere! And, this disguise will not forestall suspicion indefinitely."_

_"Why, she'll be in the most obvious place, of course,"_the Chimera spoke up.

_"The churl's fear tells us all that we need to know. Why would he be so afraid, if his bride-to-be was out of our reach?"_

_"You sssspeak wisely,"_ the Serpent complimented, the praise inevitably tainted by his venom of deceit. _"They could have ssssent her to some issssolated hole; but, why do so when they could jusssst keep her here, and have ussss range far and wide in vain sssseeking."_

_"She must be close at hand, then,"_ the Wolf reasoned. _"See there! Her fiancé's gaze keeps flicking over his shoulder. She must be somewhere in the section of the castle just behind him. If my memory serves, the queen's bedchambers are in that direction."_

_"As suitable a place as any, for her to begin her eternal sleep,"_ the Predator chortled. _"Let us end this hunt!"_

_"No, fearless Predator,"_ Death corrected. _"Our hunt is only just beginning. Once we have spilled the upstart Queen's blood, we will have free reign to cull as many of the misbegotten of this wretched realm as we so please!"_

Again, Death and his incarnations roared in heady bloodlust; and, with that, Death stalked the living once more.

Now, with the prey so close at hand, the incessant quarreling amongst the incarnations had ceased. Death was now one, and whole, and a well-oiled, unstoppable machine of slaughter.

He moved from shadow to shadow, the Chimera's mastery of stealth hiding him from even the sharpest of eyes.

He forged ahead, purposeful and relentless, driven by the Predator's fearlessness.

He followed the scent of his prey and circumvented countless obstacles, guided by the Wolf's keen senses and sharp wits.

He honed his blade in preparation for the kill, the venom of the Serpent making the implement more lethal than ever.

The shadow of Death had fallen upon Castle Crimea. And, dawn would not come.

"It's quiet, too quiet," remarked the red armored knight as he paced the length of the marble corridor.

"I swear, Kieran, if you say that one more time-!" the dour mage, who'd become suddenly demonstrative, snapped irritably.

Kieran only offered a glare in reply, forcibly returning his attention to his duty.

Still, he had to admit that such was easier said than done.

After having received the unexpected, but supremely welcome, forgiveness of both his Queen and his general, Kieran had vowed that he would do all within his power to ensure that their faith in him would be vindicated. He had knuckled-down in his training, redoubling his already near-manic efforts in mastering the arts of combat, axe-fighting, horsemanship, and chivalry. His axe clove through the air - as though to rend to pieces the anger and shame he'd felt over his disastrous, false courtship - while he thundered across the training yard astride his horse - as though to trample into the dirt his anguish over having been deceived and humiliated.

After learning that he was to be guarding the Queen while her fiancé baited in the villainous assassin, Kieran's heart had leapt in his chest and he, once more, renewed the vow he'd long ago made to excel in all that he undertook.

Bathed in the fires of his own determination, he had almost forgotten how he had been led on, and then spurned, by Lady Lucia...

...until he suddenly found himself sharing his prized post with the dour mage who had been the true object of his one-time Lady's attentions.

Soren, it seemed, wasn't terribly pleased with the arrangement either. The dour mage had studiously avoided gazing in Kieran's direction and had been steadily migrating towards the far end of the hall, apparently finding the red armored knight's eagerness to be pointless, distracting bravado.

Distracting bravado, indeed! It had been only the Queen's urgent need that had stopped Kieran from throwing down the gauntlet then and there.

Still, Kieran could not help but wonder just what the Lady Lucia saw in the dour mage.  
True, he was certainly clever and cunning; though Kieran yet harbored unvoiced suspicions regarding Soren's reasons for proposing that Lucia play the role of decoy. Though everyone had been reluctant to say it, the truth was nonetheless plain to see.

By standing alongside Ike, while the assassin lurked about, Lucia was placing her life in the hands of fate. And, she would either be laid down gently, or crushed.

The latter was certainly the more likely outcome - and, perhaps in the mage's eyes, that was precisely the point - but, Kieran knew from prior experience that voicing such a notion would not be wise.

Fortunately, Soren appeared to lose interest in speaking with Kieran. Like as not, he'd skulked into some shadow with his face buried in some tome, and was now so engrossed in his reading that arresting his attention would require nothing short of an earthquake. Whatever the case, the gap between the two men continued to steadily widen.

Ultimately, the dour mage continued slinking further and further away until he was out of sight.

Uncertain if he should feel relieved for the mage's absence, or incredulous at this seeming lax on his part, Kieran resumed his pacing. Though the report of his armored boots echoed in the marble halls, enough to make him sound like a marching platoon, the eerie way the echoes meandered away, growing fainter and fainter until they faded completely, only served to accentuate just how quiet the hall would be if Kieran were to cease his pacing.

The red armored knight, despite his commitment to excel in all he tried, had always found the gift of patience to be an elusive one. His thoughts proved to be ill company for, whenever he allowed his mind to gloss over the Lady who now offered up her own life for the Queen, he recalled how she had taken his heart in her hand and flung it aside like so much litter. Letting his eyes wander was little better, for his gaze tended to stray in the direction he'd last seen the dour mage, wondering how someone so ill-favored had won the attentions of the most sought after Lady in Crimea.

As time wore on, he felt his frustration mounting, and he labored to force away his anger. Yet, no matter how doggedly he shoved it down beneath the surface of his consciousness, it boiled back up again. Silently seething, he almost found himself hoping that the assassin would appear and present him with a target upon which to vent his anger; once so arduously pacified, but now stirring afresh. He shook off the notion, however. The Queen's safety was his foremost concern, and everything else was secondary.

If the assassin did appear, he would rue the day that he trifled with the Great Sir Kieran, Captain of Crimea's Fifth Platoon.

When the red armored knight heard the sounds of light footsteps approaching, his hand had already grasped the haft of his axe. He'd nearly had it un-slung, ready to decapitate the villain, when he realized that the man approaching was not an assassin, but a priest.

Perhaps Kieran _was_overwrought with excitement and frustration, for the chill that had spurred him into action yet ran up and down his spine.

"I am sorry, O Blessed Saint," he addressed, bowing his head, "but, this area is off limits to all visitors."

"Really?" the priest answered, his tone strangely cold, and with an oddly humorous undertone.

Something in the priest's voice made Kieran's skin crawl, and he did not envy the trouble-prone youth who went to this man to confess wrong-doings.

"I am afraid so. My orders come straight from the Queen herself."

"And, why should you bar my access? After all, I simply wish for the Queen and I to...reflect upon the significance of this Day of Mourning."

The red armored knight felt that strange chill at his spine shoot upward, settling at the back of his neck like a frost encrusted bat, its icy fangs teasing at his flesh. There was something very, _very_wrong with this priest. As Kieran scrutinized him more closely, he realized that it was not just the cold voice that sent his instincts crying foul.

Those eyes...!

They were dark. As dark as the moonless night, yet they glinted with an eerie light. Those liquid gems held Kieran's gaze, in much the same fashion as a bottomless abyss, gaping wide to devour any who drew too close.

Despite being in the grip of a strange, horrified fascination, Kieran's hand had, unconsciously, begun to stray towards his axe once again.

"Forgive me, O...Blessed Saint," the red armored knight said, the title rolling awkwardly off of his wary tongue, "but, the Queen has taken a vow of silence for this Day of Mourning. And besides, even if that were not the case, you travel in the wrong direction to meet her. She's upon the balcony overlooking the courtyard, alongside her fiancé as he addresses the people."

The priest seemed to find this remark strangely amusing, for his lips peeled away to reveal a set of yellowed teeth set in an almost predatory grin.

"Oh, come now! You wound me, O Jilted Lover. Did you really think I would be fooled by such an obvious decoy?"

Kieran's shaky pretense of cordiality faded in an instant, hardening into a glare as comprehension dawned, and he tore his axe free. In a blur of deadly steel, he drew it back over his shoulder, channeling all the strength in his being towards delivering this blow. He jerked to a halt in the midst of an overhand swing, however, when he felt something round and hard butt him in the stomach.

He gazed downward and, to his horror, beheld the pale orb of a staff pressed against his torso.

It flared; and, suddenly, Kieran felt his eyelids droop.

He could feel the sleep spell pressing down upon him, causing his muscles to slacken, his arms to sag and his stance to falter. He inwardly screamed at himself to stay upright, but he felt himself stagger backward and then twist to the floor. His vision blurred, but whether it was from the sleep spell or tears of grief that he had failed, he could not tell.

And, he suspected, it soon wouldn't matter.

He had failed. Again.


	16. Chapter 14b

Death's grin broadened as he watched the red armored knight's resistance finally crumble, and he sagged to the floor snoring.

The Chimera and the Wolf recalled all too well how the red armored knight had been upon the arm of the queen's sister, led on like a clod while she tried to inspire jealousy in her former love interest. And now, after having turned a conference on how to avert the murder of his liege into a brawl, the red armored knight had sought to redeem himself by acting as a final line of defense for the upstart he served.

It was so wonderfully amusing.

Death had been tempted to use Harbinger's ability to induce paralysis, so that the red armored knight would see the masterpiece of carnage that was to come. However, though Harbinger would not shatter from excessive use, its power needed time to replenish itself. Besides which, after Death and his incarnations had been made to look like a pack of fools so often by the upstart Queen and her underlings, Death was quite determined that her demise would happen on his own terms.

How delightful the sight would be, paralyzing the royal couple and posing them to face one another, forcing them to watch helplessly as he hacked each to pieces with his blade. Giving the snoring knight a final, dismissive glance, Death marched towards the broad double doors that led into the Queen's bedchambers. The cold brass of the doorknob was in his far colder grip when, suddenly, some inner sense flared.

Death had never felt this strange sensation before but, somehow, he knew what it meant.

Somehow, there was another - another like himself - somewhere close by.

He could smell the tainted blood, he could hear the grating of two minds housed in one skull, he could taste the aura of self-loathing.

Instinct seizing hold of him, Death turned away from his prey. The source of this aura, eerily similar to his own, drew him in a fashion very different from the prey he stalked. Whereas he looked upon the churl, the upstart queen, her aqua-haired siblings, her bumpkin future sister-in-law and, in-fact, just about everyone with loathing, this strange aura intrigued him.

As he followed the strange energies, his incarnations suddenly began to clamor.

_"I know that scent!"_ the Wolf snarled. _"It is that mage! The one who toppled me from my perch!_

_"The one who discovered my poison, and left me to slink away to Ludveck's dungeon!"_the Predator growled, seething at the memory.

_"I recall him mosssst clearly as well,"_ the Serpent hissed, almost sounding nervous. _"His arcane might is awessssome. If he lies in wait, we musssst be wary."_

_"Curious that he is here,"_ the Chimera observed. _"I saw him often before my own strike was thwarted, and he lingers near the churl as surely as his own shadow."_

_"Yet, this can only mean that our guess was right!"_ Death spoke up above the chatter. _"Who else would the churl entrust with his fiancée's life than this ill-favored mage he regards so highly? Let us...repay him for his loyalty."_

Again, there was no argument from the incarnations. Death slinked from shadow to shadow until, finally, he beheld the dour mage. Now able to study him from more closely, Death saw that this senses had not played him false.

Death and the dour mage were two-of-a-kind; both the children of warring houses, and not able to call either one home.

Death recalled how this mage - looking deceptively like a child - commanded the winds with skill that he had never seen before. And, thus, drew upon every ounce of the Chimera's stealth to approach unnoticed.

Soren's wary reverie was sudden broken - or, rather, shattered - when he sensed a strange presence approaching him.

Yet, strange though it was, it was terribly, terribly familiar.

He had felt it once before, in the company of the swordmaster Stefan, who had revealed himself to be one of the accursed Branded...

...and, who knew Soren to be one as well.

The dour mage shuddered briefly at the memory, recalling the terrible fear that had chilled his tainted blood, that Stefan would reveal this secret to all he could reach and see Soren turned out from the one place he felt he belonged. Yet, to his surprise, Stefan had kept his silence.

More amazing still, Ike knew this truth as well, and did not reproach him for it.

Yet, in the split-second that all of this coursed through Soren's mind, he realized also that the presence approaching him was _not _Stefan.

Whereas the hermit swordmaster had evoked a sense of loneliness and solitary pride, Soren felt from the approaching presence only hatred, madness...and death.

Before Soren realized just who he'd sensed, it was too late.

His limbs suddenly went rigid, his muscles seizing up, and then slackening until they became too heavy to lift. He felt an iron fist clench down upon his stomach, and sharp pain channeled up his spinal column, and then… he felt nothing at all. His legs could no longer support him, and he twisted to the floor in a limp heap, unable to catch himself as he hit the unyielding marble. His tome clattered down beside him, but it didn't matter – he could not move. He could not reach it. And, even if he could, his locked throat could not expel the incantations of the spell. His mind, however, had not fallen to the same entropy as the rest of him, and he frantically pondered what had happened. A thin moan managed to escape his clenched throat as he tried to pick himself up, but his mutinous limbs remained deaf to his commands. What had afflicted him? How had this paralysis been brought about, and why? And, above all, by whom?

Suddenly, a cold and terrible voice grated in his ear, and, while it addressed none of his questions, it answered all of them.

"Death has come for you."

Soren felt his pulse begin to race and his eyes pulsed wide. His blood-red irises darted in all directions, trying to find who had spoken. But, then again, he didn't have to look to know who his assailant was. He recalled, only too clearly, how his practice in wind magic had unexpectedly knocked the assassin from his perch...and how, in a moment of impossible stupidity, Soren hadn't shouted for the guards. Now, he was splayed helplessly on the cold marble floor, but the chills that racked his form had nothing to do with the frigid stone beneath him. He remembered also the feral madness he had seen in the assassin's eyes that day. He began to feel a wave of panic creep over him as he realized the gravity of his situation, but he forced himself to calm down. If he was to escape this trap alive, he needed to think rationally.

He could sense the assassin looming over him, perhaps silently laughing at how vulnerable he had made his most persistent foil. Soren squeezed his eyes shut, fearing they might betray his terror.

Yet, suddenly, a different emotion stole over him. Though his muscles remained deaf to the mage's commands, his nerves were perfectly alive. He felt now impossibly aware of everything touching his skin, from the cool floor beneath his limp body, to the heavy robes covering him… to the assassin's cold hand tracing the contours of his face, and the knife that yet remained poised to pierce the flesh of his neck. Now, his fear surfaced anew, and just as the knife threatened to take his life, panic threatened to take his sanity. For, during that moment in which his life balanced upon the edge of that blade, he recalled the strange presence he'd felt just before the assassin had appeared.

It was... a connection.

It was a perverse reaction to the blood they shared, that of the parentless Branded. Now, one of that rare, loathed race lay helpless before another of his kind, who sought to kill him. His instincts whispered "kin", while his mind shrieked "murderer".

"Mnn… n-no…" Soren rasped, his throat squeezing itself so tightly that the explication sapped his strength. The assassin's grip tightened – could he sense the way the mage was trembling under his icy hand? That yellowed, predatory smile twisted.

"What a tantalizing victim you will be," he remarked. Then, the man's smile suddenly faltered and he looked up and away, seemingly speaking to himself. "But no, not here. Here, we could be spotted. Yes… I believe we must take him… further away…"

Before the mage could even make sense of the strange monologue, the assassin snatched Soren's arm and began to drag him across the floor. The mage tried to break the man's hold on him, but the spell's effects yet rendered him as limp as a boned fish. The mage's arms jerked spasmodically, but his frantic commands to struggle otherwise remained locked in his skull. Curiously, however, this elicited a reaction from his tormentor.

"You are still trying to fight? Most would have given up by this time. _Bravo_, fool," the assassin sneered, giving the mage a sharp jerk and releasing his arm. Soren managed only a thin moan as he sought to crawl away from his captor's grip, but he realized only too late that he had been maneuvered into a sadistic trap. His captor had relaxed his grip with the paralyzed mage beside a flight of stairs, and Soren's bid for freedom only saw him tumble down the marble steps to a painful landing below. He landed at the bottom in a crumpled heap, trying to swallow his gasps of pain as he heard the assassin saunter down after him with the blithe confidence of a trapper whose snare had the quarry in its inescapable grip.

Soren felt his already labored breathing go short and hard, and his vision blurred. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to empty his stomach. Waves of pain and fear crashed over him, driving his mind closer towards the brink of utter panic. He was helpless… he was going to die…

His life, dreadful as it was, flashed before his eyes. He saw the horrible old woman and the cruel mage who had reviled him from the moment they realized what he was. He remembered the beatings, the insults, and he felt again the instinct to curl in upon himself until they'd expended their hatred.

It took him a moment to realize he had done just that. The spells grasp on him was beginning to waver. Maybe because the mage commanded a strong spirit, his will to survive tempered by his hard life. Maybe it was his innate resistance to spells. Maybe it was just, of all things, because he'd gotten lucky… Whatever the cause, he felt his body stir back to life, and he could move again.

He might not prevail over this foe, but he was not going to go down without a fight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the assassin's hand, as cold as his murderous trade, reach for him again. Soren whirled on his attacker, and the assassin, taken by surprise, could not draw back before the mage bloodied his lip. Soren lurched to his feet, which felt as stiff as rock, and urged legs that were still half-dead and made a break for it. He hardly paid attention to where he was running, he just knew he had to get away… before… A fist connected with his temple, and stars exploded in Soren's vision. The force of the blow sent him careening into the wall, but he did not fall. Rather, he was braced against it.

"It's a fine game you play, mage. But, unfortunately for you, I seem to have a different set of rules."

If the notion of passing out had occurred to Soren, hearing that voice again blasted it from his mind. As he registered his body's position, he realized that he was, once again, in the assassin's clutches – and, quite literally. His arms were held firmly against his sides by those of his attacker, and a knife was wedged between those yellowed, grinning teeth.

"Scream, and I'll cut your tongue out."

Now, it was not a spell, but the sheer power of fear that paralyzed Soren as he was dragged backwards and through a doorway. The smell of his own sweat overwhelmed him, every pulse of his wildly beating heart was a betrayal of his emotions to his captor. Fear leaked out of his every pore, evaporating into fumes of terror that billowed off of him like fog. And now, he found that he couldn't even think straight. All his wits had been drained away with one thought. _I am going to die_.

* * *

"And furthermore, this day should he honored not only for the memories of those we have lost, but it should be a reminder of how blessed we are to call Crimea home. For this is a country now blessed by peace, and prosperity, and-"

Ike was hardly paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth. For those his voice was loud, and commanded the attention of those who stood below the balcony, the King-to-be became more and more aware of murmurs moving amongst the crowd. Every so often, he would hear a portion of his speech repeated back at him, like an echo. He wasn't sure whether or not that was a good sign. Were they mocking him?

It wasn't as if he could do much better. He hadn't run out of words to say - but he had forgotten how this speech was supposed to end. As much as he was buying time for himself to remember, he was buying time for...

He couldn't think about that right now.

"As your King, I vow to uphold the standards on which Crimea is built. I vow to keep your country safe. I will do all in my power to ensure no more harm comes to those here. How, you ask, do I plan to keep these vows?"

_What was I supposed to say next?_

"It is interesting that you should ask..."

* * *

He was thrown to the floor, a kick to the back of his head leaving him stunned. And, though his hearing was nearly overwhelmed by the blood pounding between his ears, he registered the metallic click of a deadbolt locking into place.

He waited for the pain to come, perhaps for the final time, but it did not. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes to see fully, for the first time, the man that would soon be his executioner.

"I suspect that the speech written for _your_ King will be lasting a while longer?" his words dripped with sarcasm, and venomous anger roiled off of him as fear did from the mage. "After all, he is waiting for me, is he not? Such a pity that I shall have to disappoint him. But, it only means that I have time. Time… to _kill_," the assassin's smile froze the mage's blood for another long moment, before he could finally tear his gaze from the man.

How long would it be, before this murderous Branded decided to finish him off?

"Yes. And, though games do tend to bore me, I must admit that I've enjoyed our little bouts. You've kept me from my target quite admirably. And, the games you play, I have to admit, are rather interesting. So," Soren's eyes were drawn back to his tormentor as he spoke again, "why not make this interesting for me? _Run_."

Soren knew he was being toyed with; but the possibility of escape, scant though it was, had securely embedded itself in his mind. His inner voice began to scream that single word with deafening volume. It was the only thing he could think to do… so, he did it.

Before he had decided to gamble that the assassin's sadistic game might be turned to the mage's own advantage, Soren had not been able to take stock of where he had been imprisoned. But, as he ducked and weaved amongst cabinets and bags of flour, he realized that this place was the granary. And, shortly after realizing this, his keen tactical mind began to churn. Flour became clouds of blinding smoke. Stacked baskets filled with apples and tomatoes became boulders and hails of stone to be knocked free to topple upon the enemy. And, the kitchen knives… perfect projectiles for hurling at his pursuer's face.

Soren had forced his furiously churning mind to calm, so that he could think clearly. Without his tome, he could not perform any spells – not that he could remember any at the moment – but, he was not helpless. He was _not_helpless. He repeated that thought, his one glimmer of hope, over and over in his mind, as he searched for some means to defend himself. A rolling pin sailed through the air and hit its mark, and the assassin let out a yowl of rage as he found his victim who he'd sought to toy with was far harder to hunt down than he'd anticipated.

"Enough!"

Soren felt himself being pulled off balance in mid-stride, and pain burst through his shoulders and back as he was grabbed by his dark hair and slammed into the counter. As he sagged, the wind knocked out of him, he realized that, once again, he was pinned like an animal for slaughter.

"I have had enough! It was quite the game of cat-and-mouse, but this is over!"

The assassin roared his words into the mage's face, but Soren barely heard them. Much more pressing was the assassin's tight grip on his throat, and the mage's lungs screaming for air…

In the next instant, his lips parted in a silent scream. The assassin's grip on his throat began to loosen and, between gasps for air, the mage began to moan in agony. His hands, at first trying to pry the man's fingers from his neck, now desperately shoved at the assassin, but Soren was barely aware of these desperate actions. The assassin loomed over him, his jaw set tight in a smile that only a Feral One could manage, and his hold remained unshakable until he saw Soren's soul in his eyes; bare and vulnerable before him, as the mage's face twisted in despair. Only then did he pull back, watching with delight as Soren crumbled limply to the floor. His trembling, shaking hands reached up to grasp the dagger in his side and, with what little strength remained to him, to try to pull it from its new sheath; crimson, wet… _bleeding_.

Soren was barely aware of this, his pain-dulled mind overwhelmed with the living horror that he had just been dragged into. He could hear the assassin speaking, and what he thought was laughter… and then, silence for a few long minutes. For a moment, he thought the man might have left. His mind told him to flee, but his body only trembled as wave after wave of pain crashed down upon him, the epicenter of which being the knife now embedded in his torso. He felt wet - all over - soaked in a mixture of blood and sweat and… was he crying? He wasn't sure anymore…

Shock joined the myriad of confusion raging in Soren's head as heard footsteps approaching. He craned his too heavy head upward and, through blurred vision, saw that the assassin had returned. A kitchen knife gleamed in his hands.

"You are going to suffer to your very last drop of blood," that voice whispered into his ear as the assassin leaned close, so close that Soren could feel his almost fetid breath. A strained cry squeezed through the mage's lips as he was dragged to the floor once again. He flinched as he saw that hand reach to grab his face, but instead, he was pulled upright by a fist clenching his dark hair.

"You," he heard the voice intone, "You are a disgrace to this world. Your thoughts, your feelings, your life… your _blood_ means nothing, do you hear me? The world needs to open its eyes and see you for what you really are…_Branded_." At this, the knife whistled through the air, swearing away the long bangs that normally hid Soren's brand from view. The severed strands fluttered to the floor. A few tried tenaciously to cling to Soren's sweat dampened brow, but the assassin brushed those away with a careless sweep of his hand.

And, his tormentor was still not finished with his dark pleasures. His hand grasped Soren's right wrist, and then his whole arm was forcibly jerked into the air. "These hands… the plans they have crafted, then traps they have set, the stratagems they have woven for sake of self-preservation… all of it was futile. Can't you see? If only you had," the biting edge was obvious in the voice, but its sting was barely felt after the murderer's next blow. Soren shrieked in pain as the kitchen knife was driven through his hand and torn free again again. Then, it was driven through and torn free again… and, again... and, again.

* * *

"And this is my medal of Conspicuous Gallantry, awarded to me for defeating the Black Knight. I'm sure you all know about him - he was my father's killer-"

The crowd gave a general sound of sympathy.

"-and my final teacher."

Now, confusion surfaced again. As Ike had ventured further and further off of the topic of the Day of Mourning, the crowd did not know what to think - their new King sounded sincere, and commanded a certain respect for that, but... was he mocking them?

"And this," Ike tried frantically to rein in their attentions, and pointed at another medal on his sash. "This is..." he blinked down at the piece of medal, wishing desperately that something would happen, if only to take everyone's eyes off of him...

* * *

Soren's cries were cut short as a hand clapped over his mouth. His arms had been shredded to crimson ribbons by Its knife, and his hands were mangled almost beyond recognition. The mage didn't even try to stop the tears of pain and fear that now streamed unabated down his face.

In the face of his own death, what was the point of hiding them anymore?

That voice came to him again. "Your life is as fleeting as the shadow in which you lived," It whispered. "And, you will die as you have lived. _Completely alone._But, do not worry… others will join you soon."

With a strange cackle, as though many voices spoke through one pair of lips, It stalked out the door. Soren's body quivered and his lips parted in thin whimpers; but, he hadn't the strength to rise, nor even to cry out for help. It's knife was still thrust deep inside of him. He could feel it, and it hurt… oh, Ashera… it _hurt_. His lips parted to scream once more, but no sound escaped him. His face felt as if it were on fire… no, his whole body burned, and his head spun… and he just wanted to vomit or just… just…

_Die_.

The room spun, his vision blurred, then darkened... and, Soren knew no more.


	17. Chapter 14c

"Long live the King!"

A look of abject horror crossed Ike's face as he shouted those words to the audience below, and he heard the crowd repeat them back – not as a cheer, but as a question.

"I… I… that would be… ah, me," the King-to-be ended lamely. He felt Lucia grab his arm, and glanced over to see her craned her head towards the door, indicating that he had said enough. Ike pivoted on his heel, poorly escorting the decoy queen and excusing himself from the eyes of those below. The doors swung shut behind them, but the sturdy oak did little to muffle the din of the people's voices.

"I'm not sure if that went better or worse than planned," Lucia intoned, lifting the dark veil from her face to reveal a smile.

"If only I had the silver tongue of Count Bastian," Ike said, a nervous grin tugging at this lips. "If he were here and not in Sienne, I would have had him do all the speaking!"

"And the whole city would have been put to sleep!" Lucia laughed.

"Would have been better than the riot Ike just set off!" Mist interjected, "Especially with that last line! They're going to remember that speech for a long, long, _long_ time, brother!" She laughed at the red hue her sibling's face took. "Maybe we should worry less about the assassin, and more about what the Crimeans are thinking! I get the feeling that they're not too pleased."

"At any rate, Geoffrey and Nephenee will be tied up with crowd control for a while," the Queen's sister said. "Come, let us go see Elincia. She will want to know that all is well."

Ike nodded his assent to this course of action, and walked astride the two girls toward his fiancée's bedchambers, where she had been hidden during what would, hopefully, _not_ be considered her future husband's most memorable appearance. He gave a light, good-natured chuckle as the relived the past hour in his mind, wondering if he came across as simple-minded as he felt he had. He had intended for the speech to go much, much better, and it should have - considering that Lucia and Elincia had written it for him to say. But towards the end, his nerves had gotten the best of him - he, who had stared down the Mad King himself - could not remember his lines in the face of a benevolent crowd. He wouldn't have been able to if his life depended on it. So, towards the end, he'd just... made up a few lines.

But, all was well. The assassin had not struck - wether it was cowardice or something else that had kept him at bay - perhaps he had been captured, or killed by his client for breaching his contract? - Ike was relieved.

A sickening feeling overtook him as he rounded the corner, dispelling his previous naïve thought. For there lay Kieran, crumpled at the top of the staircase leading to Elincia's hiding place – their last line of defense, dead to the world.

The three paused for a long moment, Ike in mid-stride, Mist with her mouth agape, Lucia's eyes wide, each stunned into silence. With sudden realization, each was pulled out of shock and rushed up the stairs as one in panic. They all shouted in unison, but the names they called were very different.

"Kieran!" blurted Mist, reaching the top of the steps only to drop to her knees by the fallen knight.

"Elincia! _Elincia!_" Ike called desperately, fear and worry causing the normally imperturbable General to quake.

"Soren!" Lucia's voice came more panic-stricken than she expected, the name leaping from her mouth as she realized that he who she called was nowhere to be found.

Only one voice replied.

"Ike?" Queen Elincia tentatively opened the door to her room and peered out from within. "Ike, is that you?" She was immediately swept up into her fiancé's arms.

"You're okay," Ike breathed, his voice tight and hoarse with emotion as his fears were dispelled. The Queen clung to him, regarding Ike's fear with perplexity, but realization dawned when she saw Kieran.

Mist looked up, giving the embracing couple her quiet report on the knight.

"He's asleep. There's an enchantment over him."

Ike's expression was grim as he regarded the knight, before he turned back to Elincia. "It's all right. Mist can lift the spell," he assured as he saw concern pass over the Queen's face.

"O-of course, but I… who did this to him? No one came… for me. I saw no one!" she exclaimed, worry creasing her features.

"Luck blew our way," Lucia murmured. "Perhaps Kieran wounded the craven, and he retreated." But even as she spoke, Lucia saw the knight's axe in his limp grip, unstained, and she could not force away the chilling feeling that something was very, very wrong about all of this. "But you are unscathed, dear sister. And for that we can only be grateful."

"I need a Restore stave," Mist said suddenly, rising from Kieran's side. "I need it to lift the spell."

"I gave mine to Lord Soren," Elincia said. At the mention of the name, the woman's already worried features turned ashen. She glanced up and down the hallway, then looked to the other three. "Where…?"

The silence resonated in the hallway. Then, General Ike cleared his throat and gave out orders.

"Mist, Lucia," he began, his voice taking on the commanding tone he'd last used during the Mad King's War, when so much had been at stake, and one mistake could cost Crimea everything, "Go down to the supply room and get that staff. I'll stay here, with the Queen," he said, reaching up to grasp the hilt of the blade he'd worn during the ceremony, a clear, though perhaps voiceless, warning to any unwanted eyes that may have been watching. "I can protect her."

"We will hurry," Lucia said, turning to carry out the future King's command. Mist grabbed onto the hand of the Queen's sister, the other hand tightly gripping her heal staff. The lady tactician smiled reassuring at the girl as they set off.

They rounded the corner, and, once again, took pause at the sight of something lying on the floor.

"Th-this… this is Soren's tome." Mist released Lucia's arm and picked up the discarded book with a trembling hand. "H-he would never just… leave it. This is his weapon."

"So he is unarmed?" Lucia asked, her eyebrows knitting together in apprehension. When Mist only gave her a frightened look in reply, the elder turned to look around the empty space around them.

"Soren?" she called warily. Her hand drifted back to grasp the haft of the dagger that she had concealed on her person as part of her disguise, in case measures became dire during… during this time. When the air around them provided no reply to Lucia's call, she turned back to the cleric.

"Come along, Mist," she said, offering the younger her hand once more.

"Sssomething amiss?"

The pair jumped as the walls spoke to them – for they saw no one that the voice could belong to. There was a dark chuckle, which, to Mist, sounded reminiscent of a Feral One's growl. She pulled away from Lucia and fled down the hall. Lucia hesitated only a beat, giving one final, tentative glance over her shoulder, before chasing after the girl.

"Mist! Mist, wait!"

"I need a Restore staff!"

Lucia caught up with the girl in the supply room. As the tactician grabbed for a weapon more suited to her than the short-bladed dagger, she scolded Mist.

"Why would you run off like that? With all that's happening? After what… who we just heard?" She asked, turning to the young cleric as she strapped a sword and sheath to her side.

Mist looked down to the two staves in her grip to avoid meeting the eyes of the Queen's sister. "I…"

"Nevermind, don't dwell on it. We need to hurry. We've avoided our brush with death – let us go aid Kieran."

The girls exited the supply room, and though Lucia's reassurances still hung in the air, they were only words. Both were now set on edge, tense and alert to their surroundings.

Neither was sure who saw the door first – barely open, the slightly warmer air of the granary seeping out and into the hall. But there was also a sinister feeling that permeated the warmth like a chilling fog, and Lucia seemed both drawn in and repulsed in the same moment.

It was Mist who pushed the door open, and it was her scream that reached Ike's ears.

Instantly, the Commander's blade was drawn, the decorative sword was no Ragnell or Ettard, but its edge was sharp, and he had no time to go to his room to retrieve the blade that once belonged to his father. He bid Elincia to lock herself in her room, then he ran off to investigate what had spurred his sister's cries – and eradicate it.

He found the girls frozen with horror at the threshold of the granary's door. Mist let out a second horrified shriek, while Lucia, her expression agape, seemed rooted to the spot. Ike shoved his way between then in a rush to see what had terrified the two so, and the sight that greeted him chilled him with despair. The General, however, had the presence of mind to turn from the nightmare that they had walked in to, and shout three words.

"Mist, your staff!"

The healer shook herself from her horrified trance, and let out a sob. "Ike, it's… it's…"

He grabbed his sister's shoulders and pulled her towards the pool of red and black that Soren was drowning in.

"Save him!"

-

_"Soren, we need to talk."_

He had paused mid-stride as he heard his name, spoken by that all too familiar pair of lips. He looked around him, and seeing that she was not there, dismissed the voice as his imagination.

But after a pause, he heard her continue.

"I am so sorry. What else can I say? I could beg for your forgiveness… is that what you want? Will that make things better?"

He looked around once more, and located where her voice came from. He turned and stepped just inside the room, his mouth open to speak, to prevent any further association between them that he could possibly regret later, but kept silent as he saw her drop to her knees before the mirror in the Queen's room. He knew at once what she was doing. She did not know he was here yet, he could easily just slip right back out and continue on his way… but he found himself wanting more to hear what she had to say.

"Please, Soren. I can't bear this tension anymore. I know that this is my fault, but…" her words trailed away for a moment, but then began to tumble from her lips all the faster, "And, and I don't care about your bloodline! You're still you, Soren, who cares what that little mark on your forehead means?"

Now there was a peculiarity…

"I just… asking you to be a friend to me, to be… anything more than that is more than I deserve. But please, can we be on speaking terms again? I— I don't—oh, what am I doing?" she let out an exasperated breath and ran both hands through her hair to rest upon her head. She stared at her reflection in the full length mirror before her, then turned away. And Soren knew at once that if there were a time to leave, it would be now. But he… after that… he nearly felt himself compelled to stay and honor her wish.

But how could he? For all he knew, she was only play acting, maybe even mocking him. He had never understood trust – it was a weak, fallible emotion, and living the life he had, he knew its consequence… whole kingdoms had been toppled over such a petty thing. Soren only trusted one person in this world, and considered the risk of trusting anyone to outweigh any possible gain.

And yet, he stayed in the room, his feet rooted. Emotions were such petty, irksome things…

She glanced once around her, and rose to her feet with a sigh, and turned to face the door. He had been seen. He may as well speak.

"Lucia, what are you doing?"

"Soren!"

_"If I can't see everything that could possibly give you away and find some way to compensate for it, then this plan could fail." He regarded her with an unreadable expression – but if she saw what he was really thinking, really feeling, he… he might just…_

"Hang on!"

_"I would die."_

"Not so much that."

"Soren! Soren! Mist, hurry!"

_He closed his eyes, afraid to watch her expression as he spoke, how she might receive this. But… she deserved to hear something, if she truly had meant the things he overheard…_

"Ike is different from the rest of the world. He is compassionate and caring, willing to bend his ear to any who need someone to listen, be they Beorc, Laguz, or B… … Branded. He is selfless and protective, and will not hesitate to stand up for the people he cares about. He is ruthless to those who want to harm that which he loves. When he does wrong, he seeks first and foremost to make things right, the instant he sees that he has hurt someone. He is good, and just, and… and whole. So unlike me, and, in some ways… so very similar to you."

He was finished now.

"Open your eyes!"

He felt a sudden, soothing energy course through his system, which suddenly ached and burned as his once wavering heart took a lurch. It was enough, though, for he found the strength to pull himself free of the darkness at the voice's command.

White starbursts flooded his vision, with red creeping in around the edges. He felt as though his throat were burning, like he was trapped in the Grann Desert in midday, and his lungs were filled with lava and his tongue was made of brimstone… and his legs were gone, or he certainly didn't feel them, and his arms were in pure agony, and his side… oh, that knife… he felt as though he'd been dragged right up to Death's door, and he wasn't sure how he made it back…

Through his pain, he was suddenly conscious of a hand, with fingers cold as ice on his burning skin, running over his face. He He discerned two voices over the sound of his pulse thudding weakly in his ears, one male and one female, and both immeasurably apprehensive.

"Mist, go. It's enough. He's awake. I don't want you in here anymore."

He heard light, retreating footsteps, and he became faintly aware that they were running from him… and he wondered distantly what he had done to instill fear into someone.

"He's not moving. Do you think he can hear us?"

"I don't know."

The voices were distant and indistinct, and he knew that he knew them, but he could not remember who they were, or what he was doing, or why he felt like this…

He felt a large hand close around his smaller, newly-mended one.

"Soren?"

And he suddenly knew. He would recognize that voice, that concern, even if the Dark Angel had smothered him.

"I… ke…"

The grip on his hand tightened.

"A miracle. A miracle."

The voice he heard now was that of the female's. He let out a thin moan as she pressed her hand to his cheek, but he could manage no more… the darkness was calling him back…

And then he remembered. The horror. The pain. Sudden urgency seized him, and he knew that… this couldn't be over.

"E… lin…"


	18. Chapter 14d

The half-formed word parted Soren's lips in an agonized gasp, which faded to an empty sigh as the small mage's eyes drooped shut. The pale hand in Ike's grasp - too pale, he belatedly realized - went limp and then began to slide free from his trembling fingers.

Ike's fist, which literally engulfed that of the small mage, clenched onto the pale hand, as if the pressure might force the life of his dying friend to remain within the cooling body. But, his brawny hand found no purchase on the blood-slick flesh. Soren's arm slipped free and crashed to the bloodied marble with a sickening thud.

The rapport of the bone upon the cold, hard stone was enough to make Ike wince; yet, the small mage did not so much as flinch from the impact.

As though... as though...

For a stretching second, the future king could only shake his head in disbelief, in desperate denial, at the body of his best friend.

A corner of his lip made a valiant effort to curve upwards at how comically ironic that sentiment was. Even as a small boy, Soren had always been aloof and standoffish, exuding a cold, frosty exterior that could make chills run up and down a man's spine. His propensity for seeming calculating and detached had often made him a pariah amongst the Greil Mercenaries, who sometimes found themselves disconcerted, even angered, by how Soren seemed so far removed from what was going on.  
Yet, as Ike had learned, through painful experience, appearances could be deceiving.

And, behind that frosty exterior was a very different person indeed.

Penetrating the armor which Soren used to ward off all human contact had been an arduous task. The dour mage had turned away Ike's overtures many times, and rarely in peaceable tones; but, Ike was his father's son, with all the mule-headed stubbornness of his forbearer. And, to the amazement of all, Ike had ultimately managed to bore through the ice and thrust the hand of friendship through the crack.

And then, likely surprising himself as much as everyone else, Soren had clasped it.

Ike remembered that day with great clarity, for it had been the only time he had ever seen the side of Soren which he kept secret from all the world.

The small mage's cold exterior had been a facade, as Ike had suspected, but it had also been more.  
A shield, behind which hid a lonely and frightened boy.

Soren had told Ike of his bloodline, and how all who knew him for what he was had regarded him with contempt, loathing and fear. He'd relayed the tale of the spiteful old woman and the cruel mage who had been Soren's caretakers - a word both of the odd friends had used in its loosest possible sense - before the young mage had finally crossed paths with Greil.

And, with that confession, Soren voiced his fear that he would be turned out again, this time from the one place he truly felt he could call home. After that, the ice in which Soren had ensconced his secret heart melted away, and he'd wept.

Perhaps it had been Ike's deep sense of loyalty and the value he placed upon friendship.  
Or, maybe it had been the defiance and revulsion with which he regarded the age-old prejudices between the beorc and laguz. Whatever the reason, Ike swore to Soren that his lineage meant nothing.  
Not now, not ever.

For if Soren could find no other home, he'd always have a place at Ike's side.  
And he'd earned it a hundred times over.

Soren had long been a veritable cornerstone of the Greil Mercenaries, even more so than Ike himself.

How many times had his tactical acumen allowed them to prevail against seemingly overwhelming odds?  
How many battles had been decided by his mastery of spells?  
And yet, how ironic, that neither of these skills had saved Soren's own life.

That irony was made all the more bitter when he caught sight of Lucia, still garbed in black and her face shrouded by a veil of mourning, kneeling over the body.  
Her head was bowed, much like when she'd been playacting as the mournful Elincia, except it now seemed terribly genuine.

Seeing the aqua-haired swordmaster in such a state caused a curious sensation in Ike. Though he still felt some resentment at how Lucia's machinations had hurt Soren and Kieran, her willingness to place her life in the hands of fate to protect those whom she cared for had caused his anger to dim.

Now, it had been extinguished altogether.

Remembering how her actions had set off a veritable firestorm, however, harkened Ike back to another time when Soren had astonished him.

Though neither the young mage nor the aqua-haired swordmaster would admit it, they had been more than simply fellow retainers.  
Well, almost.

Kieran's accusation of Soren using Lucia as the bait as punishment for snubbing him, not to mention the image of Soren conjuring a tornado in the castle's council chamber, was more than the future king's limited patience could stand. Once the suddenly volatile mage had calmed himself, Ike had demanded answers.

And, with his fiancée's life hanging in the balance, no amount of tart exclamations would turn Ike away.

Eventually, Soren's resistance had crumbled, and he'd described how he and Lucia had met during the Coronation Ball. Lucia had spied him in the shadows which he so often haunted, prompting Soren to migrate towards better concealment. Then, much to his surprise, he found the lady seeking him out.

After a few awkward attempts at conversing, Soren had, for reasons he'd seemed hard pressed to make sense of, asked her to dance.

If Ike had been perplexed by the notion of Soren dancing with a lady, he'd been astonished by how the small mage's crimson eyes had clouded over at the recollection.

Yet, the transformation had not ended there. Soren's face, which had been marked with jadedness and cynicism by his nightmarish youth, had changed as well. The creases and scowl that repulsed many an onlooker slowly faded, and a hint of redness appeared on his pale cheeks.

Soren was, Ike had realized with amazement, embarrassed.

The small mage had admitted to kissing Lucia - by accident or impulse, he'd insisted - but Ike had managed to divine that Soren had enjoyed it.

But, as Soren's tale continued, it took a darker turn. And, his abashment turned into desolation.

The young mage had crossed paths with Lucia again at the Yule Ball, and she had been rather displeased that he'd made no effort to visit her.

Though Soren had offered Ike the same excuse he did to Lucia that night, the future king knew his friend well enough to guess the truth.

Soren had been afraid.

The pain of growing up as a lonely and hated outcast had etched itself deep into Soren; not merely in his cold expression and cynical air, but his very spirit. Having only seen the darker side of the world, he could not recognize, much less reciprocate, an act of affection.

And, even if he could have learned a concept so alien to him, the fear that his bloodline would be discovered yet cast a shadow over Soren which he found as inescapable as his own.

Thus, he'd retreated back into his icy armor, and his brief connection with Lucia had crumbled just as quickly as it had formed.  
True to fashion, Soren had claimed to be unbothered by this. He'd told Ike that it was inevitable that so sought after a lady would find a beau more to her tastes.

Yet, Soren's eyes told Ike a very different story.

The young mage, breaking seemingly a hundred precedents in doing so, had suddenly been unable to meet Ike's gaze.  
And, when Ike had managed to catch a clear glimpse at Soren's eyes, another hundred precedents were suddenly obliterated.

The young mage's crimson orbs betrayed a sentiment that none, not even Ike, had seen reflected in their blood-red irises.  
Regret.

Ike had been so flabbergasted that his jaw had plummeted earthward. Soren had almost sounded like his usual self when he'd bitingly asked Ike if he'd caught any flies.

Yet, the barb had lacked the usual venom, confirming the future king's supposition.

Soren _did_regret how things had ended with Lucia.

Again, Ike's gaze turned to the aqua-haired swordmaster. He could do little more than guess at the expression hidden behind the layered defense offered by her veil and the curtain of her aqua coils. Yet, when her hand found one of Soren's, the future king was suddenly aware of the grief reflected in her mournful posture. Reluctant to intrude on her mourning, and yet unwilling to turn away, he found himself wondering what might have happened if fate had been kinder to the mage and the lady.

Could Soren have at last found the happiness that had eluded him for so long?  
Perhaps, for the future king could see much of the mage in the lady, and the reverse held true as well.

Though Ike did not know Lucia particularly well, Elincia had told him many a story about the aqua-haired swordmaster. Just as Soren was fiercely devoted to Ike, so too was Lucia no less dedicated to Elincia. Each was an accomplished tactician, able to negotiate the delicate balance between acting decisively and ensuring that no precaution had been overlooked.

Given time, might this odd pair of mismatched souls have discovered in one another what Geoffrey and Nephenee or Rhys and Mia had found in each other?

_I suppose we'll never know now,_Ike mused, his eyes misting.

He blinked back tears, silently vowing he would never forget the small mage who'd been his best friend and most dedicated ally.

Nor would he ever forget the untiring service that Soren had given to Ike and...

His train of thought suddenly went awry as his heart, now thudding furiously, began to climb into his throat.

"E...lin..." Soren had said.

His last gasp, at first rendered unintelligible by Soren's labored rasping and the blood pounding in Ike's ears, now rang with ominous clarity. The small mage's last act had been to give a warning that Ike's fiancée was also in danger.

The future king could feel the color drain out of his face as he envisioned what Soren's assailant could do to his precious fiancée and, with redness gathering at the periphery of his vision, he whirled to charge towards Elincia's chambers.

_I will avenge you, Soren,_ he avowed. _I swear it!_

* * *

**And so here we are, at the end of chapter 14! Many thanks to you all who have stuck with the story this far. I am finally on winter break, and am hoping that with my added free time I will be able to do some more writing on this. My original goal was to finish this story by the end of this year, but it looks like I'll just have to make that my NEXT year resolution - there's still quite a bit to come!**

**Thanks for reading, and feel free to drop a review. I find them quite wonderful.**


	19. Interlude 1: Malefactor

**Note:**This interlude takes place BEFORE the events of Ice, but contains pertinent information for the plotline of the story.

* * *

The granite walls of Castle Felirae shone like alabaster in the full moon's light, overriding the darkness of the land around with its gleaming splendor. Once drawn to, the eyes struggled to look elsewhere – the mansion, resting at the peak of a hill, was impossible to ignore, so unique was the bastion from its surroundings. Though possessing no less beauty of their own, the pristine forests that yet retained a sheen of ice and the snow-capped Marhut mountains served as a backdrop that only magnified the castle's majesty. Crystallized droplets of water hanging from a lofty perch in the sky formed a halo around the moon, their clear prisms transforming the white light to a myriad of other colors, arcing in the sky. The star studded firmament seemed closer than usual, and the bite in the air that spring had yet to chase away caused everything to seem more real, vibrant, alive. Almost as if heaven itself was reaching its fingers down to brush the land, and the earth was holding its breath in anticipation. Gaze turned skyward and thoughts racing fast, a single figure made his way across the flatland to the rise of the hill, to the mansion at the peak. A crimson ember snuffed itself out just before reaching the door, and the figure pocketed his pipe as he knocked. Thick doors of cypress swung open to admit in, and he disappeared into the castle's brightly lit interior.

Eyes burned by the cold wind began to water as the densely perfumed air came into contact with his face. His fingers, numb from the walk, began to throb as warmth danced over them. His thoughts grew bleary as his senses accommodated these new surroundings, and yet the anticipation remained.

"Lord Ludveck has been expecting you."

The knight, clad in white, addressed the visitor with cordial hospitality, but still the visitor had his reservations. The knight turned on his heel, his cape mimicking a flutter of dove's wings in both motion and sound, and set off across the gold-inlaid floors to his master's chambers, the visitor following.

The castle's interior seemed only to grow more lavish the further he ventured in. White, purple, and golden silk tapestries cascaded from their wall hangings, and silver moonlight blending with the warm torchlight gave the halls an ethereal, otherworldly glow. Here, the smell of incense and rosewater was so strong that he felt as though he was bathing in it, an unseen censer swinging just before his face. He heard voices from elsewhere, deeper in, and would not have been at all surprised if they had suddenly burst into an aria.

"Just in here, sir."

The visitor nodded to the knight and entered the room, watching as the man took up position by the door. The upcoming conversation was not to be disturbed.

The room itself was immured in the same luxury as the rest of the castle. The same opulent hangings, the white alabaster glow, and that overpowering, masking scent. He was starting to think that the fragrance might follow him everywhere, which wasn't exactly conducive to his profession.

"I've been expecting you, Sir Fireman."

And the illusion was gone. The visitor met the dark gaze of his host, and felt an ice encrusted finger slide down his spine. Though his job had brought him into contact with people of this sort time and again, it seemed that he was still not as numb to fear as he would have liked. But then, perhaps the emotion was an asset at times, for his instincts had never played him wrong before, and now they were telling him that he wanted nothing to do with this… client.

Ludveck smiled, and his guest was surprised to see that the lord's teeth were, in fact, _not_pointed.

"I have… some business to discuss with you. Won't you sit? Make yourself comfortable."

_Temptation_.

"Of course."

He dropped into the velvet-cushioned chair indicated, sinking so deeply into its plush depths that he wondered how he might ever extricate himself from them.

"You're quite the difficult man to get ahold of. But such is to be expected, I suppose – an enigma such as yourself is not one to easily find. But when I heard the stories, I knew it had to be you."

This prompted a raised eyebrow from the visitor, but Ludveck took the action as a cue to continue.

"An entire regimen of dracoknights… rumor has it that you completely eradicated them. Posing as a bard, entered their ranks, earned their trust, and killed them all… in the span of one night."

_There was some mead involved._

He kept the thought to himself, waiting as Ludveck paused. Obviously waiting for either conformation or denial of the tale, but he gave no indication either way. The lord cleared his throat, evaluating the grim figure resting casually in his sitting room, grey eyes unwavering.

"Your reputation holds you as one of the best. You've never failed or been caught. A true man of the shadows."

_Flattery_.

"It must be you."

The visitor, to all appearances at ease, was busy scrutinizing the lord's face. His expression of calm was as much a façade as his home, and just as easily seen through. The quiver in his lips, though not quite reaching his voice, was a testament to his anxiety. The sweat glistening on his brow was not of strain, but nerves. He did not sit, as his guest did, but moved restlessly.

_He is more afraid of me than I could ever be of him._A predatory smile was covered just in time by his hand, moved easily in a gesture that conveyed contemplation, not deception.

Yes, Ludveck was afraid. _But of what?_

"You are the best. I can have nothing less. Anything less is unacceptable. Anything less would not do my status justice."

_Pride._

_Trademark of all these bloody, craven nobles._

"Of course." The visitor broke his silence, though another smirk crossed his features. Hidden beneath his contemplative hand, the grin went unnoticed. But then, he doubted Ludveck would have noticed at all, for the simple statement seemed to have stoked some inner fire residing in the man. He paced with renewed fervor, and his hands seemed to be attempting to beat the surrounding air into submission.

"Yes, yes, it must be you!"

Though his patience for bosom-grasping, overdramatic aristocrats was, to his credit, illimitable, the visitor found himself tiring of this latest charade.

"What is it that you would have me to do?"

His host was caught off guard by the question, staring at the grey eyes that bored into his own. His mouth hung open in a very unlordly manner as he considered the question.

_A forgivable lapse, considering who he is talking to._

He cleared his throat and resumed his pacing.

"All in due time, though believe me when I say that I do not mean to keep you in suspense, as I am sure your time is nearly as valuable as mine. I intend, however, to first explain my reasoning, so that you see why this job must be done and agree that it is for the best. I do not, after all, want to risk your betrayal."

_If only you knew._

"Of course."

"And, might I add," Ludveck interjected, motioning to the door as he spoke, "that gold will be no object." At these words, a third man entered the room, carrying with him a box of polished red oak. The lacquer shone in the torchlight, drawing the visitor's eyes as the chest was placed on the table before him. The servant fiddled with the silver clasp holding the lid, before prying it loose and revealing what was inside. Resting forwards on his elbows, the sight caught his gaze and held it in rapture. Arranged on the satin lining were piles of gems and gold, glittering like tiny suns.

The visitor hesitated a moment – appearing too eager would be an insult to his ambiance – before burying his hand in the treasure. His host watched patiently as he extracted from the horde two gems, each as large as his palm, and held them to the light. One, the color of blood, carefully cut to retain no flaw from the earth, refracted the firelight's glow in a dazzling crimson display. He could not dismiss the notion that the gem was emitting light on its own, and it seemed to be heavier than it appeared. His fingers tingled with the stone in his grasp, and he felt a residual warmth, as though the liquid it resembled had taken up residence in the stone itself, given it a pulse of its own.

The other, by contrast, was cold. Not quite dead itself, but seeming more to be drawing the life around and stealing it for its own. Smooth as glass and darker than night, it drew the heat from his hand and left only an empty, cold feeling against his skin. As much as the red gem seemed to give off light and life, this other gem swallowed both into its ebon depths.

_Both of them feel at home in these hands._

"Consider those your down payment," Ludveck spoke at last, drawing the man's gaze back to him. "I am sure you will be completely satisfactory."

_Bribery_.

The visitor added this newest sin to Ludveck's name as he added the two stones to his coin purse. He calculated how much heavier the satchel would become when he sold these gems, and how many nights, in the in that gold would buy him.

"You have my attention," he conceded, eyes meeting the lord's. That twisted smile arose again.

"She must atone."

_For all his buildup, he is disappointingly anticlimactic._

The visitor was not at all surprised. In fact, he had predicted this beforehand.

He could not, however, have predicted the extent to which he saw this new emotion in the Lord of Felirae's eyes.

_Lust._

"She must be shown the error of her ways. Made to atone for her actions. You must have heard the way she gambols about with that… mercenary scum! Holding his words in higher regard that those of her retainers, making him a lord and heaping her praise upon him! "The Savior of Crimea" he is called in certain circles, none of which you will see myself cavorting in. I see him for what he is – a low-life cur, a simple child masquerading as a general, without even a surname, his only stake to power a result of chance, a filthy-blooded peasant who should not be allowed to intermingle with the royal bloodline!"

He was not prone to anger, not any extreme emotion, but the death sentence forming on Ludveck's lips did provoke some inner beast.

_Bloody ambition._

And he could not hold his tongue.

"Strong words, against one who has found favor in the court."

The eyes of his host flashed, yet the visitor maintained his mask of indifference. Thereby assuming that the words were naught but an assessment of fact, Ludveck placated his anger as misunderstanding.

"So you see, then, why her punishment must be severe."

Ludveck again motioned to the door, and the servant returned, this time with a vial containing a viscous, purple liquid. The guest had been in his profession long enough to know it on sight.

"Whispering Death."

"So you are familiar with this implement, I gather."

Though not averse to the use of poison and in fact rather experienced in the area, this one in particular chilled his blood.

"Hviskra Murthre by the Old Tongue, in my memory serves correctly. To be handled with care, as it is easily absorbed through the skin and into the bloodstream. The most common cases of poisoning are through this method or, to ensure entry, application through a wound. If not in keeping with such macabre tactics, poisoning through ingestion is just as potent. IN the case of high doses, death nearly immediate. First starting with a rapid increase in body temperature, then a numbness extending from the wound up the left side of the body, it is fatal upon reaching the heart. This process can take up to six hours, during which the victim remains cognitively lucid until near the point of death, at which time they begin muttering as if insane. The voice grows weaker as the body's muscles lose control, and their mad babble only ceases once the heart stops beating, hence the name."

_Horrible way to go, really._

Ludveck seemed mildly impressed. To this summation, he added his own end.

"There is only one cure, and it is just as elusive as this poison. Truly foolproof."

While the lord's sins were copious, it appeared that he had, indeed, left one for his guest. The darkest, most unforgiveable, but the one he was most accustomed to committing.

_Murder._

The poison lay, waiting for him to take, in Ludveck's outstretched hand.

"Kill the Queen."

They had spoken the same utterance at the same time, but they sounded different. One had spoken the words as an order, the other, a thought still being mulled over.

"The Queen, only," Ludveck asserted.

"Why?"

There was a silence, during which the visitor reevaluated the room, its contents, and its door. The air was oppressively thick, and it wasn't just the perfume. The gems in his pockets, his acquiescence, felt heavier than lead, and would obstruct his exit.

"Why?"

Ludveck's jowl clenched, and the tension of the situation was present in his voice. "It is not your place to ask such questions, especially those I had considered answered already."

Any lesser man would be shaking in fear at the livid anger on the lord's face.

_But I am not a lesser man._

"If your quarrel is with Ike—" he paused, watching with a bit of amusement at the effect the General's name had on his adversary – Ludveck flinched, and the anger in his eyes transformed, for a moment, to anxiety.

_Fear was a breath away._

"—why kill the Queen?" he finished.

"…her death will bring to the churl every ounce of the punishment he deserves. Death," Ludveck sneered, regaining that sense of self-assured power, "is too good a reprieve for him."

The statement penetrated the air with its finality.

Again, he regarded the poison. Even one as hardened as he did not wish that death on anyone.

_The lone exception, perhaps, is the one holding it in his hand._

"No."

Ludveck could do nothing but gape, unsure of what he had just heard. His twisted smile had found a new home on his guest's face.

"I have a policy of never accepting more than one contract at a time, as it is often the case that the terms of separate contracts will interfere with one another, and I must unfortunately report that this is the present dilemma."

_I must give Bastian credit for his prescience, when next I see him._

The Lord of Felirae struggled to form words.

"Un…unacceptable."

"Good night, Lord Ludveck."

The stalked from the room, and was halfway across the main hall before he heard the predictable sounds of pursuit. He hadn't expected to make it this far, but he had left Ludveck in quite a state of shock.

With a sigh of resignation, he turned to meet his opponents, goaded into action by their lord's cries of "Capture him! Do not let him leave!"

He was faced by six men, and he considered the fight as much an affront to his skill as his rejection to Ludveck had been an affront to his noble title.

It was hardly a challenge at all, and more a chance to slake his thirst to further spite the ambitions of the lord of the manor.

His house became decorated with six corpses on the golden tile, and the scent in the air was now of blood. Red stained the walls and spread out in pools under the cooling bodies of Ludveck's men.

It seemed so much more fitting.

Kneeling to clean his blade on the shirt of a man who had barely drawn his own in defense, the assassin smiled.

"And so once again, I sully my hands and blade in your name, Count Fayare. May you rest easy in the knowledge that there is nothing that can oppose you; so long as the gold reaches my hands, I shall not hesitate to kill on your orders."

Rising, he met the gaze of the devil himself. Suitable stunned at the sight of the six corpses and the man standing alive among them, he was silent. His eyes caught the torchlight and flashed red.

After allowing a wry smile to slip on his face and bowing in mock respect, the assassin spoke once more.

"Good night, Lord Ludveck."

Turning to the door and making his way through it with no resistance, he returned to the shadows he called home.

He did not disillusion himself – he knew that this was not the last he would hear from Ludveck.

_And yet, I have no regrets._

With a smile of confidence and triumph on his face, Volke disappeared into the night.

* * *

**End Notes:** This is intended to be Ludveck's first experience hiring an assassin - Volke was his first choice. When Volke turns him down, he hires the assassin that is currently the antagonist in Ice's main storyline.

I also intend there to be at least two other interludes, so long as I have the time to write (or, in one case, _find_) them.

Hope you enjoyed, and please feel free to drop a review~


	20. Interlude 2: Proposal

**Note**: This interlude takes place just after the introduction of Ice. This serves no real purpose other than a filler and an excuse to write some Ike/Elincia sweetness, a day late for Valentine's. I hope you like it~

* * *

To say she was shaken was an understatement. Her life had nearly been snatched from her hands this morning. The poison-tipped bolt had whistled right behind her head – by the grace of a miracle, it had missed.

The embodiment of that miracle was with her now. He'd been hesitant at her invitation to accompany to her room, and a voice in the back of his head warned him of the scandal that this action could create (strangely, the voice had been that of his tactician's), but how could he say no? When she could have died today?

He stood behind her, admiring the way the sunlight refracted around her lithe, curved frame, gathered in her golden eyes to multiply their beauty. He paused in this thought to entertain another – he was, he could say, the only woman (she was not a girl, for he supposed that it would take a woman to have survived all that she had) that he had considered beautiful. He'd very narrowly missed the years where, he supposed, these thoughts, his tastes, would have sharpened, for his father's death had immediately transitioned him from boy to man. Maybe he hadn't really been looking, but then, why should he have to, when the most beautiful woman he'd ever met had once asked him to disregard her title, separating any boundary that might have been between them.

He'd declined at the time. That voice in his head had said that it would not be right. And now, he might have missed his chance with her – no longer was she a princess, but a queen.  
That voice in his head that never lied was now telling him that a mercenary such as himself could never… he shouldn't even be entertaining these thoughts.

She shifted, her emerald tresses cascading over her shoulder as she regarded him. He felt his mouth grow dry on the inside, and he fought the urge to lick his lips. For some reason, that felt awkward. But she was not really looking at him. Her gaze downcast, he saw the tell-tale gleam of water in the gems that were her eyes, and her pressed hands and tense frame was an outward indication of the feelings that belied her otherwise calm.

He expected a bit more, considering the circumstances – tears that fell, or hands that trembled – but a queen had to keep control, or otherwise jeopardize her standing before the senators and nobles of whom she needed respect.

He caught her gaze, and she tried to smile. She was mustering her strength, he knew, and he wondered if she wanted him to leave her alone.

He found himself wondering, too, who this façade of strength was really for.  
"Queen Elincia," his voice came out softly, but unshaken. He wanted to be strong for her; he didn't want her to be afraid. "Staying in here… I mean, you…" he found his attempt at remaining composed dashed, and he wished that he had planned his words more thoroughly before trying to voice them. "Do you want to go on a walk?"

"What?"

The confusion that laced her features was a shift from the fear and trepidation that had been there a moment before, and he was glad to distract her, but at the same time was kicking himself. He wanted to reach out to her, let her know it would be all right, but the voice in his head was now screaming taboo.

"Let's go outside. I…" he would pass off the suggestion as something he wanted, not something he wanted for _her_, "can't stand these surroundings. Come with me."  
Ignoring the warning that his subconscious declared, he reached for her hand and led her across the room to the door. Eyeless walls and lifeless paintings stared as he clumsily made his way down the half-remembered path to the courtyard. He could not be sure if it was her palm that was clammy, or his. A nameless servant pointed and murmured to her friend as the two passed by. Suddenly all-too-aware of the feeling of her hand in his, he felt a flutter of unease in his stomach and half-considered letting go, if only until they got outside and away from the eyes of others. But he did not relent to his nerves, for he feared even more that if he did, if he released her, that she would no longer follow. That she would disappear entirely.

When they reached the breezeway cutting through the garden, he found his progress met with sudden resistance. She had stopped walking.

"Ike," her voice, unlike the mask of calm she wore, shook. "I can't."

He did not force her with a jerk of the hand, nor did he pull his hand away from her. Instead, he reached forward and pulled both of hers gently into his, and offered her a reassuring smile.

"Of course you can."

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, not confident enough to meet his gaze. "I am afraid."

The last he had seen her so shaken was on the front that was Castle Delbray, when she feared for the life of her brother. Before that occurrence, he'd only seen her truly afraid once before, when she had just awoken from being rescued by himself and the other mercenaries, and revealed her plight to his father. If she had been the sleeping princess, then he was the knight in shining armor, he thought. He had been there for her then, and so he would be here for her now.

"I'll be with you."

The assurance was enough. He released her hands and looped an arm around hers. She needed this. What was the point of living, if she only thought about death?  
Maybe he was a hypocrite on that matter. He remembered the war, and how much of his time that was spent wondering what would happen if death arrived at his door, and the time he had spent trying to ensure that such would not happen. He recalled walking through courtyards much grander than Melior's, but he could not recall what they looked like. He even remembered an admission to one of his soldiers that he simply did not have time to enjoy these simple things. Looking at life from the perspective of death changed everything.

But the day was new. This experience was new. On the morrow, the year would be new. If he looked at it any other way, the strain of life would simply wear him out. He would not, could not, let death win.

Yet, he could not find the words to voice all of this to the Queen. So, he said instead,  
"Spring is coming. The bite's out of the air already. Can you feel it?"

"Yes," she replied, though it took her a moment longer than normal to reply. "Spring has always been my favorite time of year."

"Is it the flowers?" he asked.

"Partly," she answered, noncommittally. "It… it was also around this time, three years ago… I met you."

The small smile that she gave with these words was magnified on his face. He wondered if she, like the herons could, had read his thoughts. "Am I that important?"

"To me, yes."

The way she spoke those words so effortlessly made him suddenly wonder if his heart was going to pulse right out of his chest. As it was, it thudded so loudly against his ribs that he could scarce believe that she could not hear it. In the comfortable silence that followed, he noticed the smile on her face grow ever so slightly.

"Thank you, Ike."

His hand found her shoulder and rested there. His smile and company had dispelled the fear that had once been in her eyes. She had needed this, and he was only glad that he had been able to help. He didn't want to leave her.

With the feeling of being struck, he realized that he _never_ wanted to.

"Marry me."

Her eyes widened and her jaw loosened a bit. Her eyebrows rose, and her heart began to pulse a bit faster. "What?" she asked.

"Elincia, marry me. I want to marry you. I never want to leave your side. I don't think I could ever be happy without you. I love you."

He dropped ungracefully to his knees. For a moment, she could only stare, her hands trembling. He saw this, and took them once again into his own, silently begging that he wasn't about to become the biggest fool on the face of Tellius.

"Is this real?" she breathed, her voice taken with surprise. "Ike… oh, Ike…"

He waited patiently, his deep blue gaze meeting her golden one and waiting for love to fill her eyes.

"Ike… yes."


	21. Interlude 3: Simplicity

**NOTE:** This interlude takes place before chapter two of Ice. Enjoy~

* * *

The market was bustling with life as people rushed about to make their last purchases of the year. Tonight there would be a celebration; merchants peddled their finest drinks and foods to furnish parties, and several citizens stood in the market square plaza, watching as knights from the local encampment cleared a space from where fireworks would be fired later in the night. Merchant's children gamboled around the square, playing hoop-and-stick while their parents traded their wares for gold and silver.

This was not where she had intended to be this afternoon, but she could not say that she wasn't enjoying herself.

She and her escort had left their horses tied in front of a pub that belonged to one of the soldiers they had fought alongside during the war – the owner had promised to keep an eye on them, after the knight's insistence that his comrade-in-arms be allowed to rest after carrying him from the castle. The horse seemed as pleased as a beast could be at this suggestion.

She held to his arm as he led her along. She had, at first, been hesitant at his suggestion that they went to the market. After all, the purpose of this venture into the city was to contact her informant and set into motion a network that she was sure would aid in the capture of the assassin that sought her sister's life. But as with everything, he was persistent, and she found herself complying when she realized that he would never, nay, in a thousand eras, accept "no" for an answer.

So she found herself with her arm resting on his as he led her down to the market plaza. She offered a small smile to those who glanced their way. She expected the attention, as her face was well known in the city, and she was recognizable as the Queen's sister.  
It therefore surprised her when a little group came running towards them, screaming delightedly upon seeing their visitor.

"Look! It's Kieran! Captain Kieran!"

The exuberant knight beside her broke into a smile and gently pulled his arm away from her to receive the small crowd, kneeling to put himself on their eye level. "Come on, then, children!" he said, lifting one easily in his arms and placing her on his shoulder as the others grabbed at him, tugging at his trousers in an attempt to gain his attention. Making sure the girl on his shoulder was steady first, with her fists gathering his hair in locks to keep herself stable, he picked up another and balanced him on his hip. "It is so good to see you all!"

The swordswoman watched as the knight greeted his following, a smile drawing up the corners of her mouth. She would have never guessed he would be so popular with the youthful citizens of the realm, but looking at his personality and quirks, she supposed it should have been a given.

One of the young boys dancing around the knight's feet waved a stick in the air, trying to get his attention. "Captain! Captain!"

Kieran turned to the boy, and, the excited child brandished his stick like a sword, trying to emulate the hero that stood before him. "Tell us the story about the Giant Scorpions of the Marhut Mountain Range again!" he requested. At the suggestion, several more of the children piped up in concurrence, or begged the knight for their favorite story, instead.

"You want that old tale?" the knight jibed lightly, catching the boy's stick and tugging on it gently. Thrilled with the game of tug-of-war, the boy and one of his friends pulled back, trying to prevail over the strong knight's grip. "_That_ one? While I to enjoy the retelling, you've asked for that one every time I've visited!"

He slowly loosened his grip so as to not let the boys' pulling throw them backwards as he released their imaginary sword. The child let the tip rest on the ground as he grinned up at Kieran. Then, suddenly becoming aware of the fact that his hero had not come into town unaccompanied, he turned his gaze to Lucia.

"Who's that?" he asked innocently, pointing his stick at her. Kieran made a soft noise of scolding as he placed the child he'd been holding on the ground and got the other to slide off of his shoulder to rejoin her group, ignoring the few strands of his red hair that she took along with him. "Now, Henry," he said, carefully nudging the tip of the boy's play-sword downwards. "It does not do to point your weapon at a Lady."

"Right, right!" he said, pitching the limb aside so that he might go investigate Lucia. His hands, dirtied from play, grabbed onto the hem of her white cloak. "Hi!"

She could not help but smile, even as Kieran winced at the mud-stain the boy's hands left on his lady's wrap. "Hello there. Henry, was it?" she asked, and he nodded quickly. She knelt next to him, smiling gently. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Lucia," she greeted.

The child's mouth quickly fell agape. "The Queen's sister?" he asked, and she was slightly impressed that he had such knowledge of her position. He couldn't have been more than six or seven, and though all children knew the name of the Queen by this age, she remained a bit more ambiguous. However, his next words speedily enlightened her as to how he had come by this knowledge.

"Kieran's told us all about you! Thunderation, I never expected to see you in town with him! It's… it's an honor!"

The other children rallied around their young leader, swarming Lucia with questions.

"What are you doing here?"

"Did you come with Kieran?"

"Will you tell us a story, too?"

Before she could answer for herself, Kieran broke into their ranks and gently goaded them into leaving her alone. "Gently now, children! Do not forget she is a Lady! It does not do for you to bother her so!" he said.

"It's quite all right, Kieran," she said, straightening. She slowly began to answer their questions in turn, as she remembered them. "I've come to town to see someone important, and Kieran offered, most graciously, to escort me. I'm here on business, but that doesn't mean I don't have time to—"

"Oh, Lucia!" Kieran appeared struck at his sudden recollection. "I am terribly sorry! I forgot that…" he paused here, and looked to the group of children. "I'm sorry, my little knights, but I'm afraid that I will not have time to tell you of my feats of grandeur today. I must accompany…"

"Quite the contrary, Kieran," Lucia said. "If it seems all right with you, I'd prefer to attend to this business alone. Might I ask you to wait for me here? I will not tarry long."

He seemed to brighten at the suggestion. "Of course. And while you attend to your mission, I will work on imbuing some Crimean pride into these little ones!"

She smiled as he turned back to the small brood, and watched for a moment longer as they inquired about his horse and other mundane things and events at the palace that seemed, to them, extraordinary. But she recalled her mission and set off soon enough, wandering from the market to a little-traversed back street. A stark contrast to the bustling streets she had just come from, she now found herself to be the only pedestrian. She stepped over the form of a man on the ground and smelled alcohol. She had reached her destination. Glancing around once to ensure she was alone (aside from the sleeping drunk), she placed her hand on the knob of the pub's back entrance, turned it, and disappeared inside.

The exchange with her informant was brief. It would not do to have prolonged interaction with anyone that could raise suspicion, so she did not allow herself more than a few minutes to pass on the most pertinent information and her orders. Soon enough, she was retracing her steps back to the market plaza. She paused, however, when she got there, seeing that Kieran's small flock had grown into a sizable audience in her short absence. She smiled to herself and rested against a nearby market stall, listening along with the crowd.

"And so, bereft of my trusty axe, I turned and lifted the sword of one of my slain foes. The weapon was foreign to my hand, but it was steel, all the same. I felt as though it rent the air as I lifted it high above my head, and its steely flash caught the eye of my only remaining opponent!"

The crowd, even its older members, paid rapt attention to the tale of the knight, and she covered her own smile with her hand. This was a story she had never heard before; with Kieran's tendency to repeat himself, she supposed this was miraculous. Either that, or he was only fabricating it as he went along.

"And it was with one mighty swing of the arm, the bear took, too, this weapon from my grasp! I was now unarmed, but I knew that if I fell now, in the heat of this battle, then all the fighting I had put behind me would be for naught, for my foes would rally themselves behind my demise. No, I had to survive! For, if I did not, who would protect the citizens of Crimea in my place? Barehanded but willing to fight to the last, I faced the bear. He…"

Lucia listened to the rest of the tale, trying to suspend her disbelief until he finished. When he ended, on a note of triumph and glory, she managed to catch his eye, and he offered her a jovial wave. A few in the crowd followed his gaze, and smiled at the sight of the Lady. Kieran then wandered over to her, the crowd parting before him. Some, realizing that the show was over, dispersed, back to their shopping.

He took her hands into his, grinning brightly at her. She mimicked his expression. "My, Kieran, that was quite the show."

"Just fulfilling my duties as a knight," he excused, his cheeks taking on a hue similar to his hair color. "You will let them think it was a true story, won't you?"

"You mean it wasn't?" she asked, with mocked incredulity.

"Only the bear part," he said, grinning sheepishly.

She was a bit startled at his admission. "I never thought you'd admit to… how would you call it… stretching the truth?"

"A lady such as yourself deserves no less than the truth from a man she trusts. T'would not do for me to delude you, I think."

She chuckled, but it was a bit forced. "Kieran, I…"

"Yes?"

His bright, happy expression was enough to deter the words that she had planned to say, and come up with something else to voice. "I did not realize that your knightly duties entailed acting as a street performer."

"_That_?" he asked, laughing. "Nay, that was… how would you call it… public relations and recruitment! Why, I'd wager that at least a half dozen of those boys will grow to come into service as a knight one day!"

"…you know, you're probably right," she said, impressed at his reasoning. "Who was that boy earlier? Henry?"

"Yes, the Fletcher's son. I see him often."

"I do believe he idolizes you."

"Well… what's not to be admired?" he asked, throwing his arms out as if presenting himself, "I am, you have to admit, quite a hero!"

She laughed, though she was unsure whether he was joking or not. She opened her mouth to say more, but he cut across her.

"Is your business all taken care of?" he asked, offering her his arm. She took it with a nod, and he led her back through the market, towards Calill's bar. "That's good, that's good. Hey, listen, we have at least a half mark before we have to be back at the palace…"

"Are you suggesting that we dally in our return to the Queen?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting as she turned to him. He reddened.

"You are right, we should hurry back. Besides, t'would not do to spend too much longer in this cold. Do you suppose it will snow again before spring truly arrives?" he asked, turning to her.

Lucia was a bit astonished that Kieran was, indeed, capable of making normal conversation. He asked this and similar questions as they made their way back to their horses, hanging on every word of her replies. Every so often he'd offer insight of his own on a question, but, for once, he let someone else do most of the talking.

Some small part of her felt guilty, knowing that he cared so much about her, when she…

"Amy! Hello there!"

Calill's daughter stood outside her mother's bar, leaning over the undersized porch's rail to gently stroke the muzzle of Kieran's horse. When she heard the knight's voice, she perked up, turning to him and grinning. "Captain! I was watching your horse!"

"I can see that!" he said, moving to rub a hand down his horse's neck. "Say, would you like to feed him a lump of sugar? Here, I always carry some with me… now just hold out your hand, flat…" he placed a small lump of sugar into her palm, and she giggled as his horse leaned over to eat from her hand.

"It tickles!"

"Hold still, now!" he said. "There, see? He likes you!"

She seemed ecstatic at this suggestion. "Really?" she asked, grinning ever wider as he nodded.

"Now, Amy. I have something important to ask of you. Say you're the most beautiful woman in the world, and you can have anything, any one thing, right now. What would you ask for?" he asked, leaning close for her answer. She pondered the question for a moment, and then smiled as she came up with her answer.

"Maybe a lump of sugar, but for me?" she asked. He laughed and reached for the small pouch again, indulging her wish.

"Only one, now… whoa!" he jumped as Amy lunged for the pouch, burying her hand inside and coming out with a fistful of the sugar. She let out a triumphant yell and ran off, delighted with her plunder. Kieran only laughed and shook his head, turning to Lucia.

"Remind me _not_ to tell the story of the Thieving Princess of Melior," he said, laughing good-naturedly as he examined the remainder of his sugar stores, digging around in the bag as he checked inside. She smiled slightly and turned, when a sudden motion from him caught her attention. He was holding out the bag, and its remaining contents, to her.

"Kieran? What…?"

He only grinned. "Don't you want it? I've just heard from a _very_ reliable source that the most beautiful girl in the world might have something of a sweet tooth. Was she wrong?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

She considered the bag for a moment, and then took it with a light sigh. "I'll never understand your methods, you know that?" she said, putting her hand in the pouch and digging around to pull out one of the sweets. She paused, frowning slightly as she felt something in the bag other than sugar. He stared at her expectantly as she extracted a pendant, holding it at arm's length as her breath caught in her throat. The maroon gem, though small, reflected the sunlight in a dazzling display, and the bright silver it was embedded in flashed brightly. "Kieran, where did you—"

"The merchant cut me a good deal. I know him well. I watch his children often, and he… well…"

"It's very…" she searched to find a word strong enough to emphasize her feelings. "It's gorgeous, Kieran."

"Oh, no, not really, I mean, I'm only a knight, and you're a… anything that I could give you must pale in comparison to the items you already possess. Please, do not flatter me."  
She, for a moment, forgot why she had started courting him. "Kieran," she said, allowing some of the incredulity she felt to slip into her tone. "I think it's wonderful. Any gift given out of affection means much more than a dusty gem attained through any other means. May I wear it tonight, to the celebration?"

"Of course!" he said, his whole face lighting up at the proposition. "I would be honored if you did so! My lady, I…"

His words stopped, and she recognized the thought in his eyes. Before it could manifest itself into action, however, she turned away. Placing the pendant in her pocket, along with the bag of sugar, she mounted her horse. She waited until she heard him do the same before she dared to look at him again.

"We'd best head back, then," he said, and she noted a fading trace of blush on his cheeks. She tried not to think about what had caused it to rise.

"…yes," she agreed. She spurred her horse into a trot, and he followed, uncharacteristically quiet.

Finally, after some deliberate thought, he spoke again. "Might I trouble you with one more question, Lucia?" he asked.

"You may ask, but I can make no promises regarding an answer."

He laughed, but the sound was not as full as it normally was. "It is a trivial matter, really, but it has been bothering me a small amount. It is only… when I picked up that pendant for you, the merchant seemed surprised. When I mentioned who I intended to give it to, his words… he said, "Ah, so Lady Lucia has _another_ suitor?" …do you see what I am… Lucia, he implies that there was another man seeking your affection."

She wondered how word had spread so quickly, but she tried to downplay the implication. "Do not worry, Kieran. It was a onetime engagement, and it has been broken off."

He paused. "May I ask his name?"

She took a moment or two of hesitation before deciding that he deserved an answer – that he deserved a small truth. "Soren."

He fell quiet as he thought, an action that took Kieran longer than most, trying to place the name. Finally, realization dawned. "The swordsman?"

"What?" she blinked at him, turning in her saddle to face him more fully. "No. Who—"

"Not the swordsman? You know, the rugged, skilled fellow we met in the desert? Was he wearing white at any time you saw him? No, wait, that's not the point I'm trying to…"

"No, Kieran. That was _Stefan_. Soren is a mage," she said.

"A _mage_?" Kieran seemed incredulous. He could understand Lucia falling for a man of good looks and skill, and Kieran had to offer credit where it was due. He supposed, to a woman's eyes, Stefan might have both. But a mage…? Last time he had checked, magic did not do much for one's muscular tone. Maybe it was brain, and not brawn, that had interested Lucia… and suddenly, he made the connection. "Soren? Is he not the one you… didn't you strike him, at the Yuletide Celebration? Ah," he seemed to realize what had happened, "You had been with him before. And after that, you sought me out. Much to my delight, I might add," he said with a smile. She sighed, and he tilted his head.

"Just… one more question. Why did you break off relations with him? I certainly do not want to make the same mistakes as he did, for I would… speaking frankly, Lucia, I would curse myself if I ever lost your affections."

She cringed inwardly. "There was more than one reason. I suppose the main being that he is not even of the same—" she broke off, wondering if she should share this information. Especially considering the fact she was going to share was not the reason at all.

But the damage was done. She had piqued the knight's interest, and he never took "no" for an answer. "The same… what?" he could not even think of a way to complete the phrase for himself.

"…race," she finished. "He's not beorc. He's Branded."

"…what? What's that mean?"

She sighed. She had come this far already, she may as well finish. "I've read about them before this, but I never made the connection that Soren was a member of their kind… not until recently. Basically, a Branded is the offspring of both races, with both Beorc and Laguz blood."

"Oh. That's kind of interesting! Has he any special power? Wait, more to the point… why would that cause you to—"

"Because it simply… there are those that consider such mixing of bloods cursed. In fact, it was not too long ago that even Crimea would round up groups of Branded and kill them in public executions. I do not know why such abuse was inflicted; perhaps they feared the strange abilities of the Branded that come with Laguz blood? I believe that the people who did that were very, very misguided, but can you imagine, if word got out that one of the Branded was courting a… a Lady? Crimea may be built on tolerance, but prejudices still exist. I'd be a fool to continue on with Soren, when you, a much suitable man, are right here."

The words tasted bitter as they left her mouth. She chanced a look over to him, wondering what his reaction would be.

He spent a considerable amount of time in thought, and then turned to her with a smile. "While I cannot rightfully blame him for his lineage, I am glad that you… would choose me in his stead, whatever he had to offer you."

She smiled hesitantly. "…yes." Clearing her throat once, she decided to change the topic. "Shall we not race back to the castle?"

He laughed at the suggestion, sounding like his usual self. "While I do enjoy a good competition, with you, my Lady, I prefer to ride in tandem."

She saw him lean towards her suddenly, and decided to pick up the pace. Some might call it a "head start."

His startled cry of "Lucia!" was followed by a laugh. "Do not think that my affections will encourage me to go easy on you! My steed shall best yours!"

"It shall not!" she called back, her voice breaking slightly as she yelled.

She knew she was wrong.


	22. Chapter 15a

**My my my. It ****_has_**** been a while, hasn't it? In case anyone needs a recap/explanation, this chapter gets into Soren's head as he is caught between life and death after the assassin's attack from the last "real" chapter. He has a visitor.**

* * *

_Racing footsteps echoed, seemingly from nowhere, through a vast, almost boundless gloom. Though distant, they echoed like thunder in the ghostly silence. Yet, after a few seconds of cacophony, the once-deafening clatter faded until, once again, silence reigned over the boundless night._

_At that moment, two pinpricks of lights flared to life in the otherwise absolute darkness._

Twin orbs, both the color of blood.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished again; so rapidly, that any onlooker might've thought the sight only imagined...

...except that, from where the two, crimson lights had emerged, now came a voice.

"It is done."

Again, the fleeting sound had a rapport like that of a catapult stone in the dark abyss; yet, deafening though it seemed in the abyssal void, there was something strange about the tone. There was no mistaking a sense of profound relief which belied the short explication, as though whatever the retreating footsteps portended had been the culmination of some grand undertaking.

And as though, with this duty accomplished, the unseen speaker might finally rest.

And yet, somehow, the note of relief did not ring true. The words had seemed spoken with the barest hint of dread - so minute, that one would be hard pressed to perceive it - and, more than anything else, the explication seemed...

...resigned? Perhaps. Detached? Maybe. Yet, there was still more in those few words that would ring oddly in ones ear...

...though, in this ebon gloom, who could possibly hear it?

The words echoed away across endless savannahs of darkness and the boundless, starless skies, fading into silence as a deathly quiet once more descended upon the dark void. For an unknowable span of time, neither the strange, twin pinpricks of crimson light, nor the voice broke the impenetrable darkness nor the funereal silence.

Yet, something else did.

More footfalls, heavier than those which had sounded earlier, now shattered the once complete silence. Like the first, these seemed as though to echo from nowhere. Yet, where as the first had faded away, these grew steadily louder, as though they had entered this abyssal umbra and were wending their way further inward.

Then, after a long, cacophonous march, the footsteps suddenly jerked to a halt as a tall figure emerged from the void.

He was an imposing man, well over six feet tall and very broad shouldered. Though clean shaven, an unruly brush of brownish hair sprayed from the crown of his head, an errant strand or two of gray and the lines bespangling his features betraying that he was considerably older than his powerful frame might suggest. He had the build of a seasoned warrior, and he'd clearly seen many a battle. In addition to the grounded grace of his stride and the ample muscles of his frame, he also sported a number of battle scars.

In particular, there was an especially deep one in his chest, visible through a small rent in his leather armor.

Any onlooker would find themselves quite at a loss as to explain how this man could have taken such a wound and lived.

In truth, he hadn't.

Despite this, his face bore an expression of grim humor as he surveyed the gloom all around him. Then, his gaze fixated upon a particular point of darkness in the enveloping gloom.

Even in the vast abyssal expanse, this patch of shadow seemed deeper, darker. A strange coldness also pervaded the tiny ebon corona, radiating outward in glacial pulses that would cause most to draw away with great haste.

Yet, though the tall warrior drew so near that frost rimed his garments and a beard of icicles bespangled his clean-shaven face, the biting chill could not drive him back, nor even force the grim humor from his face.

Then, in a deep baritone, the tall warrior addressed the darkness.

"You never were one for decorating, were you...Soren?"

Again, the crimson lights flared, craning upward to meet the tall warrior's eyes.

Then, just as the shadows gave birth to the tall warrior, they now seemed to shear themselves away from another. This one was clad in the robes of a mage, spun of black velvet nearly as dark as the surrounding gloom. Having somehow discovered solid matter hidden by the pervasive darkness, the mage sat curled in upon himself. Compared to the tall warrior, however, this mage was tiny. Short of stature, his face clinging tenaciously to the roundedness of a child, and yet whose crimson eyes were anything but those of an innocent boy.

In those dark red irises, one could see reflections of loneliness and despair, which had been so much a part of the small figure's life that it had etched itself into his very being. And, yet, these reflections seemed to be diminishing. What's more, though the smaller figure's face was creased with severity and his mouth seemed predisposed toward scowling, both appeared to be easing.

It was as though the smaller figure had seen much suffering in his life, but knew that it would soon come to an end.

Permanently.

"I must admit," Soren remarked, "I had not expected to see you here, Commander Greil."

The figure of Soren's former commander gave no outward reply, but instead knelt to seat himself alongside the small mage. Soren regarded Greil's actions, and his silence, with a split-second of perplexity. But then, Soren seemed to decide as though it no longer mattered.

And, indeed, this was not at all far from the truth.

It seemed as though Greil sensed this as well, though he seemed somehow displeased by it. His expression turning stern, he clapped an insistent hand upon Soren's small shoulder.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his tone broking as little argument now as it had in life.

For a long moment, Soren was silent. Yet, ultimately, he heaved a ragged breath and turned his gaze toward Greil's. Revealed upon his face was what nearly all of the small mage's few acquaintances would be stunned to find there.

Gone was the cold, calculating severity and, in its place, were eyes brimming with tears and an expression of unbearable despair and sadness. Yet, though his son had offered Soren a shoulder to cry on, Greil regarded Soren's bereavement with respectful silence and...

...and, what?

Patience, for the normally controlled mage to regain his composure? Expectation, for something else to happen? Perhaps both, or neither.

Whatever the case, Soren turned towards the void before the pair. Suddenly, the darkness began to ripple and then to shear away. Revealed was a third figure, this one an elderly woman. The years, however, had clearly not been kind to her, for she had a gaunt, almost cadaverous figure and her face, pinched with anger and wrinkles, seemed almost feral.

Strangely, the furious hag took no notice of Soren and Greil.

Another figure, however, was not so fortunate.

Curled up on the unseen floor beneath the endless gloom was a small boy with raven tresses. The small boy lay eerily still, yet there was no mistaking how he trembled under the hag's scrutiny. He glanced up at the old woman, who literally towered above his tiny frame, only very rarely.

And, when he did, twin crimson lights were briefly revealed as they stared in confusion and terror at the railing crone.

"Why me?!" she railed at impossible decibels. "The world isn't fair!"

Greil briefly turned away from the image to gaze at Soren. The small mage regarded the scene playing out before him unblinkingly, his crimson gaze seeming briefly to find that of the small boy.

For a moment, it seemed as if the two crimson eyed youths could see each other, and both Soren's past and present selves had the same unspoken question upon their lips.

When will this torment end?__

The old woman ranted again of the world's ambivalence, and Greil could discern Soren nod almost imperceptibly in agreement with the sentiment.

Perhaps Greil's thoughts had strayed to his wife, and the horrific fashion in which she had died, for his customary expression of grim humor gave way to one of empathy and understanding.

Soren, however, did not seem to notice, for the image before the pair was changing again.

The old woman and Soren's younger self made another appearance, but a third performer had come onto the stage. This one was a very elderly man, bent and stooped of posture and his breath rattling in his lungs. He wore the trappings of a powerful spell caster, but his arcane might seemed to have little effect against a persistent pain in his chest and the creaking in his joints.

He offered a satchel of gold to the crone and, in reply, she grinned like a madwoman and literally shoved Soren's younger self into the man's arms.

Then, the scene shifted dramatically. Earthen spires erupted from the darkness. Light flared to life and, in an instant, a sprawling library appeared in place the once empty expanse of gloom. The elderly spell caster appeared once more with Soren's younger self at his side. The spell caster, seemingly exhausted from the brief trek, collapsed into a chair and instantly set Soren to work on reading a moldering tome of enchantment.

Through a newly formed window, a sun and moon began to chase each other across a sliver of sky, sometimes joined by rolling clouds and sheets of rain.

Yet, though time marched on, the library yet remained a hub of instruction.

And, this instruction was as harsh as it was tireless.

Though the spell caster seemed to age by the minute, and his coughing and pains rapidly worsened, his infirmities did nothing to soften his apprentice's regimen.

Stacks of tomes rose like mountains on either side of Soren's younger self, each cloven into by his tiny hands until he looked near to fainting with exhaustion.

The spell caster looked even worse, but this did not stop him from cracking his staff over the small boy's head whenever the pace slackened.

The sun and moon continued their terrible dance and, in what seemed like but a minute, the younger Soren's tutelage had passed. Years shut in the library had left his skin pale, almost phantasmal, while his underfed frame now looked nearly as skeletal as the ancient spell caster at whose bedside he now stood. The elderly man stared up at Soren unblinkingly, death having frozen his face in much the same expression of severity as he'd borne in life.

And which, incidentally, Soren himself had worn quite often since then.

Yet now, the small mage at Greil's side wore a very different expression.

Etched on Soren's deceptively young features was a curious mingling of regret and relief.

Regret for what he had been, and relief that it would soon end.

"I weary of this life," Soren said, gesturing at the spectacle of his youth as it evaporated. "That is all my life had ever been."

"Oh?" Greil queried, turning towards the now empty expanse of blackness. "And yet, what about this?"

* * *

__**Sorry for the cliffhanger please don't kill me. More to come soon, I expect. I dug out the Ice notebook yesterday, and I've got ideas storming...**


	23. Chapter 15b

_Once again, shadows seemed to shear away to reveal another Soren. Yet, this was not Soren as a small boy, but as he had been much more recently. He faced Ike, who stood in stoic, respectful silence as the small mage revealed his darkest secret and then burst into rare tears of despair. His tirade was brought to an abrupt halt, however, when Ike clapped a reassuring hand on Soren's shoulder and vowed that the small mage, who'd lived his life as an outcast, would not be turned away again._

Through eyes still glassy, one Soren regarded Ike with amazement while, away from the spectacle, another regarded his mirror image unblinkingly. Though no tears yet escaped the latter pair of crimson orbs, Greil noted that, once again, arduously hidden emotion shone in Soren's gaze.

Once again, the outcast saw a glimpse of what had so long eluded him in his long and painful life of exile.

A sense that, at long last, he'd found a place he could call home.

_And, this was accentuated when the image rippled again, and Elincia joined the duo on the unseen stage. Like her fiancé, the queen's expression showed no hint of reproach as she gazed upon Soren. In fact, when Ike voiced the idea of Soren being part of the groom's procession at the wedding, his royal bride-to-be seemed delighted at the idea. As the spectacle played out of Soren being ennobled - with a staff, of all things - the Soren who sat at Greil's side looked on, the barest hint of amusement playing upon his features._

"Are you as alone as you think?" Greil asked, though it sounded less a question than a statement.

The small mage at his side, however, offered no reply. Instead, his crimson gaze found that of his counterpart upon the abyssal stage. The small mage's mirror image gazed upon the staff, with which a noble title had been conferred upon him, studying his reflection in the staff's orb.

The oddity caused the features of Soren's mirror image to curve into the ghost of an amused grin. When the image of Ike and Elincia's discussion of the former's garb for the wedding commenced, and then degenerated into a pillow fight, both small mages rolled their eyes in equal parts amusement and exasperation.

Yet, as the image rippled away, Soren's expression of rare humor faded and once more became one of resignation.

"Ike really is one of a kind," he remarked, his tone, for once, showing none of his customary tartness. "Not so long ago, I had not believed that people like him even existed. Someone who always put others before himself, who had the courage of his convictions, and who would..."

Soren trailed off, his crimson irises misting once more.

"Who would accept you, without reservation," Greil finished, more than a hint of approval in his tone.

Soren nodded, though he somehow suspected that the confirmation was hardly needed. In life, Greil had always seemed a man who knew far more than he revealed. And, he seemed no less so after having shrugged off the mortal coil. Yet, strangely, though the imposing former commander of the Greil Mercenaries had been known to exude a forbidding air that chilled foes and dissuaded signs of weakness among his subordinates, Soren somehow felt at liberty to allow rare tears to escape his crimson orbs.

And, though the mage hardly noticed, his former commander's expression held no hint of rebuke.

Just the opposite, in fact. For the tall warrior's gaze had found the patch of gloom where his son had stood moments ago, and a hint of moisture gathered in his eyes as well.  
Seeming to regain his composure a moment later, Greil's hand found Soren's shoulder once more. And yet, despite seemingly being able to snap the sobbing mage in two, the only impression left upon Soren by the powerful fist was a strange, reassuring warmth. The mage tilted his gaze to meet that of Greil and, for the first time since making his acquaintance, the former commander saw the mage smile.

It was a strange sight, not only because of how uncommon such an expression was on Soren's features, but also for just how much that simple curve of the lips conveyed.  
Happiness and regret, arced to intertwine with contentment and longing, which wound onward to coil about gratitude and resignation.

"I just wish I'd told him how much it, all of it, meant to me," Soren admitted, gesturing at the empty expanse where, moments before, the few happy moments of his life had been reenacted.

"I know what you mean," Greil admitted, a long sigh parting his lips. "One of my greatest regrets is that I never told Ike how proud I was of him. And, how proud I am_ of him."_

Soren had to admit, he was struck by the admission. Granted, he had no reason to doubt that Greil would have been swelling with pride at Ike's accomplishments, but he had never expected to hear such confirmation...

...not even under such...unusual_ circumstances._

But, more than that, Greil had always been a guarded man, keeping that which whirled through his heart and mind a mystery even to those closest to him. Soren recalled all too clearly how he'd gotten this impression when he'd first clapped eyes on the former commander so long ago. With little more than a glance, and despite his youth, the young mage had determined that Greil was a man who would take his secrets to his grave...

...which, in fact, he had.

Yet, it would seem that death had loosened Greil's tongue and eased the wariness and severity he'd long possessed in life.

But still, a hint of regret nonetheless tinged his features.

Soren could not be certain how or why he was affected by this minute hint of sadness. And, not so long ago, it would have affected him very little.

Granted, he'd always been conscious of the importance of the company's morale, and ever on the alert for any hint of discontentment or insubordination in the ranks. But, his typical response to discovering such ill spirits was to tartly bring the matter to Ike's attention, and to punctuate the message with a friendly barb about the future king's attentiveness to his responsibilities.

Of course, if Soren had properly discharged his final duty, then Ike was well aware that he had far more pressing concerns to attend to.

Despite this, Soren felt an odd stirring in his core, riveting his attention upon that barely visible hint of melancholy and prodding him to do something to wipe it away.

"Ike and King Caineghis are good friends nowadays," Soren remarked, almost offhandedly. "Ike is well liked amongst the laguz, particularly the Gallians and Phoenicians."

The corners of Greil's lips curved upwards slightly.

"That is good," the former commander replied, a hint of nostalgia seeping into his tone. "Caineghis is one of the best men I've ever met, and I've met quite a few."

A chuckle passed the former commander's lips as his thoughts drifted to years gone by.  
"I doubt you had time to hear many anecdotes, but Canieghis was like an uncle to Ike and Mist while we lived in Gallia. One day, back when Ike was still a babe in arms, Caineghis was rocking him and, beginning a lifelong trend, Ike grabbed a fistful of red mane and tore it free."

Inevitably, Soren recalled Ike's spectacular near-misses in Begnion, and he remarked "Incredibly, he's since done worse."

Obvious interest flickered in Greil's eyes, and Soren began to relate anecdotes of Ike's exploits during the war and, by the time Soren was done, both of the old comrades found themselves marveling at Ike's sheer jaw-dropping luck.

Ike was, they agreed, very much one of a kind...

...he had to be in order to have done all the absurd things he'd done and unfailingly live to tell about it.

"You say Ike is going to marry Princess...I mean, Queen Elincia?" Greil asked with obvious interest.

"Yes...," Soren replied, though his words trailed off as he suddenly recalled his final act during his time amongst the living.

His warning had been given, but had it made a difference?

He shook off the thought, recalling the earlier sounds of Ike tearing down the corridor to rescue his bride-to-be and to make certain that the assassin would rue the day he drew his first breath.

Soren had no doubt that the future king would be victorious, for what other outcome could there be?

Ike was one of, if not the_, finest swordsmen on the continent. His strength was unmatched, his courage was second-to-none. And, there was also his numberless victories in battle..._

...all of which had been orchestrated through Soren's tactical acumen.

With Ike's arsenal now lacking that particular weapon, how would he fare?

Again, Soren forced away the grim line of silent inquiry. Ike was facing a single adversary, not a small army. The future king had made a point of personally dueling the many enemy commanders who'd sought his death, not the least of which being the infamous Black Knight of Daein and Mad King Ashnard himself. And, not one of the lot had ever bested Ike.

Besides which, despite his claims to the contrary, Ike was intelligent and a fast learner.  
Whatever services Soren had given him, Ike would surely be able to learn how to provide for himself...

...he would...

...he had to...

...because, what was the alternative?

Some of Soren's inner conflict must've shown through, for he realized that Greil was eying him inquisitively.

"Sorry about that," Soren replied, improvising his way around the truth. "I was just remembering how flabbergasted I was when I'd heard the news that he'd proposed."

"Oh?" Greil inquired, though his attentive gaze made Soren feel oddly exposed.  
Soren then relayed how Ike had, with his customary impulsiveness, asked for Elincia's hand in the middle of attempting to console her after the first assassination attempt on the young queen...

...and, he suddenly stiffened as his thoughts inevitably strayed towards the would-be assassin.

That leering, monstrous face, that terrible voice, and the sensation of that envenomed dagger being rammed through his flesh...  
Again, Soren inwardly reiterated his affirmation that Ike would swiftly and utterly crush that half-crazed branded...

...except, that cold echo of the assassin's laughter refused to fade away.

"How'd you take the news?" Greil asked, his words punctuated by a deep chuckle.

"Just when I thought Ike couldn't surprise me anymore, he tells me he's going to be the next king," Soren replied, somehow grateful for the interruption. "I, of course, mentioned that this made even less sense than some of his other exploits. And, of course, he didn't listen."

"He has my mule-headed stubbornness. By the sound of things, he needed it. The way he seems to judge what the right thing is, and to just do it before thinking it through? He got from his mother."

Again, a hint of melancholy tinged Greil's features. Yet, a smile nonetheless curved his lips at the thought of his late wife.

"In a manner of speaking, I did too."

This time, it was Greil who seemed to follow some recollection that wended its way beyond the black horizon which encompassed the seated mercenaries. Almost habitually, Soren found himself probing the commander's expression, a sudden curiosity flaring within his mind at what might escape while Greil's customary secretiveness had fallen away.

In truth, Soren saw little more than what he had expected. Grief mingled with gratitude, mourning intertwined with closure, and regret coiled with...

...expectation?

Of what?

Before Soren could make sense of this oddity, Greil spoke once more.

"I think Elincia is a good match for him," he opined, his eyes oddly misted. "She's a very sweet girl."

Considering that Greil had known Elincia for only a few days prior to his death, and barely spoke more than two score of words to the then-princess of Crimea, Soren found himself perplexed by this pronouncement. Greil seemed to notice Soren's confusion and elaborated.

"I never knew her parents or her uncle," he began, a smirk crossing his lips. "Sorry to disappoint, but one can only meet so many monarchs. Still, I knew of King Ramon and Duke Renning's work to bring about a peace between the beorc and the laguz. I'll admit, I was skeptical about their chances. But, as the stories trickled in, I found myself respecting their determination. When I first spoke with Elincia, I could sense there was more to her than met the eye. After all, if she was just a pretty face, would she have caught Ike's attention?"

"'Caught Ike's attention?'" Soren repeated, punctuating the sentence with a gagging sound. "That's putting it mildly! The way those two have been gallivanting about together, practically joined at the hip, all through the engagement? Ugh!"

"Too sweet for your palette?"

"I felt like I was getting cavities just watching them."

Greil pressed for details and, idly wondering if dying had done something undesirable to his mental faculties, Soren obliged. He described, in less-than-flattering tones, how Ike had made a point to never let a distance greater than half a dozen paces separate him from his bride-to-be and how nearly everything they did somehow degenerated into affectionate shenanigans. In particular, the ever frugal Soren described his horror when he'd learned that an attempt to improve Ike's grasp of the written word had instead seen the couple throwing several wells of ink in each other's faces.

If Soren had expected Greil to share his incredulity over such childishness, he was sorely disappointed.

"Let me guess," he remarked, somewhat petulantly. "You and Elena were no different at that age?"

"Well," Greil remarked, squeezing the words in between deep belly laughs, "in our defense, we didn't fight with pillows...often."

"Whoever said "chivalry is dead" must've gotten it mixed up with dignity."

"I'd threaten to dock your salary but, in light of our present situation, what's the point?"

Again, the deep belly laugh erupted from Greil's weathered features and, before Soren could even make sense of the ludicrous notion, he found himself joining in.

And, just as the laughter shattered the once pervasive silence, it also seemed to send cracks webbing through Soren's thoughts. Somehow, as though the laughter had caused some foul abbess within him to run dry, he found himself reflecting on his years with the Greil Mercenaries...

...except, the memories were not the same.

Oh, the nature and the chronology of the events hadn't changed, but it was as though he were seeing them with a different pair of eyes or tasting them with a different tongue.  
Such errant images as the chaotic bustle of the fort's mess hall, of Rhys fussing over the most trivial of wounds, of Boyd and Mist's endless verbal sparring, of Gatrie's mutton-headed womanizing and Rolf's grating habit of spontaneously giving hugs and bursting into tears fluttered across his mind's eye.

Yet, somehow, not one was as irritating as he'd recalled.

No less perplexing, he almost found himself thinking he'd miss the eclectic circus of mismatched adventure seekers who'd taken him in.  
He shook his head though, almost falling back into his earlier state of resigned acceptance of his passing...

...almost.

"Besides, if you think it's bad now, just wait until they start having kids," Greil spoke up, shaking Soren back to attention.

This pronouncement made Soren shudder as he envisioned what a babe in arms would add to the already gaggingly sweet picture of prenuptial infatuation he'd seen in Ike and Elincia. Yet, when he reminded himself that he would not be there to endure such a stomach turning display, he felt an odd pang of sympathy for the child.

He, or she, was unlikely to learn much wisdom without such a level-headed influence as Soren around.

But, of course, there was nothing to be done about it...

...so, why did Soren, who never agonized over what was beyond his control, find that notion distasteful?

"I can picture Ike and Elincia being good parents," Greil remarked, once more shaking a silently grateful Soren from his reverie. "He can teach a child how to stand up for him or herself, how to fight, how to be respectful to others and how look past appearances. She can teach him, or her, to be patient and courteous, how to behave in the castle and how to be a good diplomat. Not bad..."

He trailed off, suddenly fixing Soren with a friendly but penetrating glance.

"...though, not perfect either."

His brow furrowing, Soren tilted his gaze to meet Greil's. As he sometimes had in life, the former commander's eyes held a knowing gleam that birthed in Soren's normally rational mind the senseless feeling that Greil could read minds.

"After all," Greil continued, "who could teach the little prince, or princess, how to be aware of the subtleties of life? Or, for that matter, how to read hidden signs and to discern other's motives?"

Who indeed?_ Soren could not help but wonder._

Not either of the child's parents, that was certain. Ike was a simple man with a simple code of conduct and honor...which too often caused him to be tone deaf to the darker undercurrents that so pervaded the political arena. And, Elincia was much too attached to the notion of decency and altruism being a prevalent trait amongst thinking beings.

Soren knew better, for he'd learned that lesson the hard way.

"And, most importantly," Greil continued, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, "who will teach the lesson to never, ever_ use magic tomes as coloring books."_

Hearing this, the already pale mage blanched like a sick heron.

"By the Goddess, don't remind me!" Soren swore, using an idiom known to send Rhys into convulsions.

"Oh? And, why not? I distinctly remember you making an excellent tutor for Ike and Mist when you first joined our little company."

Soren remembered it as well...though, not nearly as fondly as Greil. Like all small children, Ike and Mist had made difficult pupils. Ike's grasp of letters and numbers had taken much painstaking effort to expand to a proficiency that was even vaguely satisfactory, and Mist bored much too easily of the indoors to pay attention to her would-be tutor.

"I still wonder if that assignment was some sort of punishment for something I did wrong," Soren grumbled.

"Don't tell me your still mad about those pictures Mist drew in your wind tome," Greil remarked, snickering at the memory.

Again, the mage's recollection of that event was distinctly unpleasant. After managing to convince Titania to take over his tutoring duties for a day, he'd been quite eager to practice his spells. Yet, when he opened the strangely moist tome, rather than the arcane runes denoting the incantations and gestures necessary to cast the spells, he was greeted by a collection of smeared caricatures of the Greil Mercenaries. Mist, who had done the deed out of thorough ignorance of the severity of her actions, seemed quite distressed that Soren hadn't liked the picture she'd painted of him...

...which, since it had been a stick figure with an open book for a head, was far less enigmatic to Ike, who had laughed himself near to fainting.

"Your children were most troublesome," Soren muttered, obliquely answering Greil's question.

"Oh, I don't know," Greil said with strange air intruding upon his humorous tone. "You didn't turn out so bad."

That shocked Soren's incredulity right out of him, leaving behind only a sense of profound astonishment and...

...and, what?

Gratification, at this backhanded show of approval?

Honor, at the obvious respect and acceptance in the statement?

Maybe something more; as though he, numbered among the Parentless, had discovered someone who would gladly call him "son"?

Soren could not say. And yet, somehow, this strange, cryptic show of uncommon respect caused the grim jadedness that had been so customary on Soren's features to diminish still further. More remarkable still, a hint of a rare smile crossed his pale countenance.

"I...," he stammered, sniffling slightly, "I really don't know what to say."

"I do," Greil said succinctly. "Thank you. My son could not have had a better advisor, nor a better friend, than you."

"You give me too much credit. Ike has always been a fine warrior and leader. And, I'm sure he'll be an exceptional king."

No sooner had the sentence passed his lips, then Soren's train of thought once more took a dark turn. Again, he heard the voice of his slayer, taunting his efforts to safeguard his best friend's bride-to-be, and the mage once more found himself shuddering.

_Again, he forced away the memory, reaffirming his confidence that Ike would prevail..._

...wouldn't he?

"Of course," he continued, his words degenerating into somewhat forced laughter partway through the sentence, "it would be quite a spectacle telling him that."

_That image coaxed a laugh from both men as they pictured Ike; the indelibly modest mercenary who had been practically catapulted into the lime-light and was now perhaps the most celebrated hero of his generation. The two old comrades began bandying back and forth over Ike's customary reactions to such accolades, which mostly consisted of blushing and blubbering denials and trying to redirect the praise to someone - anyone - beside himself. These musings soon had the two mercenaries guffawing raucously._

"And, to think," Greil remarked, wiping at tears that looked to be caused by more than simple mirth, "we knew him back when he was still cleaning swords and always showing up late for duty."

"They way he ate at least as much as Gatrie and Boyd put together, but couldn't so much as touch a dish afterwards without breaking it," Soren chuckled, remembering Mist's rather impressive screeching following such incidents.

"That time he was instructed to take care of the horses, and he put all their shoes on backwards."

"Titania mounted just after he was done, but the horse's stride was all askew and sent her face first into the dirt before she even got out of the fort. When she found out Ike was the culprit, she kicked him in the arse so hard that he was still walking funny the next morning."

"And, I'm not even going to mention what he did to my battleaxe when I told him to sharpen it."

"What did he do?"

"I just said I wasn't going to mention it."

Despite the mild idiosyncrasy, more peals of laughter echoes cacophonously over the endless gloom, roiling outward and vanishing into infinity, until the two men were spent. The mage made a few attempts to loosen Greil's tongue on that last hither-to unknown anecdote of Ike's less-than-auspicious beginnings, but it seemed that this particular secret was one that the former commander was determined to keep.

The mage was hardly put off, however.

After all, he had all the time in the afterlife to interrogate his former commander for this assuredly juicy tidbit.

Yet, despite the hilarity, Soren discovered an odd prickling at the back of his mind. Like the whispering of a long forgotten memory, suddenly returned from the mists of years long passed. Now, however, it rose to the forefront of his thoughts with jolting suddenness.  
During all the years in which Soren had known Greil, there had been a question lingering in the back of the mage's mind. Amidst the always hectic life of a mercenary company's principle tactician, it had been buried under countless daily concerns which the mage had tended to day in and day out until...

...well, until now.

And yet, now it refused to be ignored any longer.

"There's one thing I'd wanted to ask you for a long time," Soren spoke up, once more feeling that penetrating gaze alight upon him. "Why did you take me in?"

One of Greil's graying eyebrows arched at this inquiry and, idly wondering if it Ike's tendency to stick his foot in his mouth was contagious, Soren tried to rectify this seeming affront.

"I...I mean... I'm sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean is...up until the war, I never felt I had been of much use to the company. And...well, by now, you must know what I am."

"I suspected, yes," Greil said without reproach. "To answer your question, I took you in because I saw something of myself in you."

Again, wondering if dying had undone his wits, Soren found himself making a jesting retort.

"Excluding that nonsensically large battle axe of yours, I hope?"

"Very funny. But, seriously. I saw a young boy with a great deal of potential...and, one who was as I had been when I first fled Daein."

Greil's gaze drifted away from Soren, alighting upon something beyond the small mage's sight.

"Someone who couldn't go back, and who had no idea how to go forward," Greil finished, a sigh escaping his massive chest.

Suddenly regretting his jibe, Soren clapped one hand upon Greil's shoulder, trying to repay the most recent gesture offered by his benefactor. Greil didn't turn back in his direction, but one massive fist rose to engulf Soren's comparatively tiny hand. And, where once he would've counted the action as bereft of significance, Soren could not help but feel he'd accomplished something in this small offering to the man he had to thank for his life.

"I also saw someone who could accomplish quite a lot, if given a second chance...," Greil finished, suddenly trailing off as he turned to meet Soren's gaze, "...and, I still do."

_Soren suddenly felt as though he'd inexplicably tried to casting a bolting spell, but that the energy had failed to escape his tiny frame. Chaining up his bones and then through his veins, it sent his heart thudding furiously in his chest as his blithe acceptance of his death suddenly shriveled and fell away._

Suddenly revived, the odd dread which refused to let him find eternity's rest in this dark abyss hurtled itself to the forefront and caught fire from the unseen lighting channeling through Soren's furiously pumping veins...

...and, it suddenly dawned on Soren that pounding heart and those straining veins were his own...

...yet, how could this be, if he had already passed beyond the mortal realm?

Unless...

"What do you mean?" he asked, in a voice that was choked to an anxious whisper as he met Greil's eyes.

He beheld that familiar visage which conveyed that Greil knew far more than he chose to reveal.

Death had done nothing to diminish the shrewdness in that gaze.

"To put it bluntly, Soren, you're not dead."

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**As for that last sentence... you're welcome.**

**:D**


	24. Chapter 16

**Sorry, this one's a bit shorter than normal I believe. I really meant to get on this sooner, but I got a new laptop and have yet to install Word on it. Therefore... you really don't want to know what I did to get this typed. It was unecessarily roundabout.**

Anywho, here you go!

* * *

Alone in her room, she'd been left with only her thoughts and worries for the others as they ran off in search of the man who had incapacitated Kieran and removed Soren from their posts. She had been sitting on her bed, facing the door with Amiti by her side when, without warning, the doorknob had begun to turn, sending her thoughts churning furiously and causing fear to rise.

"Ike?" she called, one hand rising to clutch at her throat as no reply came. Her finance certainly would have responded. Her heart plummeted and her chest felt hollow as she realized that it was not Ike who had come to her door. Reason presented her with only one other option of who could be entering, unbidden. And while she was _not_ certain of how the man had so silently gotten through the lock, she _was_ certain that she did not want him in here with her. At least, not alive.

That thought was nearly enough to shake her resolve. She was the Queen of clemency, and yet, here she was, thinking of murder. She felt her fingers begin to tremble as she pictured them taking another life. During the Mad King's War, she had acted as a healer, and, while she had faced combat, she had not killed. Her heart directed her otherwise, and she felt she could not stomach ending someone else's life.  
During the war, of course, Ike had been there, with his steadfast tactician guiding their steps, and she had not been required to fight so terribly. Her fiance had always filled those shoes, had taken lives in numbers that she was loathe to count, and had killed the man who had killed her parents when she had been too weak to do so herself.

However, this time, she was alone in her room. There was no Ike to protect her, no Soren to tell her what to do, no brother or sister or Bastian who would offer up their lives to keep her safe.

She was the Queen, and therefore, she had to protect herself.

...no, she was Elincia, and she didn't want to die.

But here _death_ was.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as Amiti came from its sheath and she faced the door. Donning a mask of calm, she tried to be brave.

"...come in."

-

_It was rare, to have so willing a victim. A predatory smile curled his lips as he opened the door at her call. He would not have waited for this in any usual circumstance, but the girl had the illusion of authority. What better way to humor her before her death, than to give her the illusion of control?_

"Good afternoon, Elincia."

_He did not give her the pleasure of hearing her title come from his lips, but instead licked them in anticipation. She had her sword drawn, but he saw the tremble in her wrists and jaw, and knew she was terrified._

Of course, he supposed, she had the right to be. Were he in her shoes, he would be little more than the quivering mess that she was trying so hard to hide.

"Thank you for such a warm welcome. But do not feel the need to stand in my presence. Please, sit. And, while you're at it, why not put away that blade of yours? I had assumed you'd treat guests with more courtesy."

_She tilted her head back and raised her sword. He could not help but think how easy a target she'd just made her throat, but he resisted the urge. After all, what good was a show, if he had no audience?_

"A man who appears in my bedchambers covered in blood is not one I care to give my hospitality."

"Ah," _and he smiled._ "My, what a mess."

_She was predictable. As soon as he glanced down to his blood-soaked front, she lunged, aiming to add his own blood to the liquid that stained his robes. But he was ready for her. He side-stepped the blade and she flew through the door._

The door.

Her blade clattered to the ground and she made a run for it while he shouted an expletive that likely reached every ear in the castle. Normally, he was not prone to such outbursts, but normally he was not this deficient when it came to dealing with his target. He pursued her, but barely got past the door before near-colliding with more steel.

"Stand down."

_The face of the man revealed his lurid thoughts clearly. He had one arm wrapped soundly around his to-be bride, the other holding up the rapier that he would use to end this assailant's life. The blade was not one he would normally use, but the threat was clear as he rested it on the assassin's shoulder by his neck. Eyes flashing angrily, he would strike in but a moment._

Death was not afraid. Impossibly, he smiled.

"I was waiting for you."

_Up rose Harbinger, and down fell the General and his maiden. Similarly to the way the tactician had gone, he saw panic cross the features of both victims, while he laughed and seized the Queen's arms. He paused and took a moment to smile wickedly at both her and her would-be savior, before dragging them apart._

"A small delay, but we are back on track with fate."

_He pulled her back into her bedchambers, which he still saw as the most fitting place for her to close her eyes in death, and leaned her against the wall. Cheeks that were normally pale had drained to become moon-white. Her doe eyes formed a silent supplication to him, and he was disgusted._

"Do not look at me so," _a sibilant hiss belied the words he spoke_, "Wench."

_He stood over her and drew his blade, coated with half his final supply of Whispering Death. She withered beneath him like a falling flower, collapsing limply on her side. A swish, slice, and it would be over._

Belatedly, he realized he'd left someone very_ important out in the hallway._

A smirk teased his lips as he returned to the door, gazing for a long moment at the immobilized Ike.

"Think I forgot about you?" _Death cackled and jerked the General's arms until he was in the room with his fiancee. A fleeting look of panic passed over the man's face as he saw the Queen, splayed helplessly on the ground in wait of her end._

Death's visage grew hideous with joy and bloodlust.

"You will not be the last," _he spoke, barely able to keep from laughing._ "You will meet your end, then, one by one, the rest of your," _he sneered_, "family will join you. Your _dear_ brother and sister, the _precious_ daughter of Greil, your _honorable_ fool of a knight... and I mustn't forget those _esteemed_, half-witted villagers you left in Delbray..."

_He knew that, if she could, the Queen would be screaming for mercy. It was a pity that he could not hear her begging, but alas. The tears streaming down her face appeased him enough._

He knelt beside her and allowed a cold hand to trace the contours of her face. A calloused finger brushed back a tear, but there was no empathy or pity in the motion. Death smiled and brought his face close to hers. He didn't want her to miss a single word./i

"There was a time when I would not have reveled so much in fulfilling my contract," _he spoke in a low tone, drawing his knife again,_ "But you,_dear Elincia_, must truly have the power to change the hearts and minds of even the _greatest_ men. Know that I only set out to kill you - your evasion of my every ploy is what drove me to act thus. Every time you parried my blow, I resolved to strike ever more forcibly the next time. And so - here we are."

_She trembled, and behind him, Death could almost sense the desperate struggle of the general that, courtesy of Harbinger's spells, was locked in the commander's mind._

He drew out the knife.

The door burst open, admitting two figures into the room at once. Death rose quickly to face this newest delay to his plans, and laughed when he saw who had come.

"Fiend!" _spluttered the tall one_, "Get away from them! I will not allow- get that thing away from me!"

_Death easily dodged Kieran's hasty swing as the knight attempted to bring his axe down upon Harbinger. The attack, in theory, was well placed, but the attempt itself was laughable. Death turned to face the knight and the girl who had entered, a grin as malicious as his profession on his face. She became frozen as his eyes locked on hers, and she gripped the door frame and prepared herself to run. Once again, a laugh cold enough to chill the room left him, and he turned back to Kieran._

"That easily, Impervious One?"

_The taunt provoked the knight into taking another swing, and when he missed this time, he nearly hit the general, who could only stare wide-eyed at the blade. The red knight stopped his swing just in time, his breath coming out hard and short as he fought to defend the royal couple. His task incomplete, he spun around to locate his target._

"Look out!" _The girl, who had not yet made it past the threshold, cried out a warning against the obvious as Death lifted his stave. Fond though he was of games, this entire charade was beginning to wear on him. The sooner these ill-fated souls were subdued, the sooner he could send them on their way to the abyss._

Once again, pale light burst from Harbinger's orb, and he unleashed the powerful sleep spell over both of the new intruders at once. He would have liked to petrify them as well, with the weapon's stunning capability, but its power was not yet restored for that spell. Nonetheless, they would all fall.  
So amused was he as he watched the knight crumble limply to the ground at his feet, again, that by the time the green flash reached his eyes and he registered its meaning, it was too late.

-

Mist could barely believe it herself. She wondered how often her hands worked of their own volition, for she saw the assassin on the ground before she realized that she had been the one that put him there. Hands quaking with fear and anger gripped her Restore staff tightly, and she felt her shock boil away as she, once again, slammed the shaft against the side of the assassin's face.

"No!" she screamed to the attacker's limp form, "Not my brother! Not my family!" Each sentence was punctuated by a blow from the stave, until a voice so soft she thought she'd imagined it brought her back to her senses.

"M…ist…"

The girl paused mid-swing as her brother spoke her name in a forced whisper. The healer suddenly remembered her purpose. In turning, she pried the assassin's staff from his unconscious hold and went to Ike's side, pressing the Restore staff to his chest. The orb flared, and Mist found herself at once in her brother's shaking arms.

"Mist," he repeated, seemingly unable to say more. Though his cheeks were ashen, his eyes were dry, and his voice betrayed little more than relief and gratitude.

The girl, however, was quite a bit more unsettled. "Ike," she whimpered, gripping tight to him. "He was going to... I couldn't let him!" she sobbed. The thought of losing her brother had pressed upon her heavily ever since the first threat had arisen, and now the weight of the last few moments bore down relentlessly. She had nearly...

"Shh," he cajoled, his hold slightly loosening. "You did great, Mist… you did so good…"

The healer remained in her brother's arms for a moment or two longer, before she recalled that they were not the only two in the room. Pulling away from him, she turned and rested her staff on Elincia's arm, and an instant later the Queen replaced the healer in Ike's embrace. Her face awash in tears, the young Queen clung tightly to her fiance, but though her shoulders trembled and the tears were still falling, she made no noise. She had been rattled to her core, but it was over now.

Mist turned to the final victim of the assassin's spells and waved the Restore staff over him. Kieran woke to the green light and picked himself up slowly. He rubbed his shoulder and looked around with a dazed expression, before recalling the events preceding his disposal. His features visibly darkened and he retrieved his axe, rising to his feet.

Each set of eyes then roved over to the assassin, and the quartet spent a long period in silence, waiting as their minds slowly grasped the incidence that had just occurred. Finally, something in Elincia's resolve seemed to break, and she sobbed with relief, leaning heavily against Ike. Neither of the other two in the room looked over to the couple, both feeling slightly embarrassed and not trusting the assassin to stay down if they glanced away.

"Forgive me, Your majesty," Kieran began in a low voice, "I…" the words died in his throat, but none thought this unusual. The half-sentence hanging in the air was let alone as another pair entered the room.

"Goddess!"

Everyone's gaze was pulled to Geoffrey at his uncharacteristic outburst. The Commander of the Royal Knights had reached the top of the stairs before hearing his sister's sobs, and had sprinted the rest of the way to her room with his fiancee. He stared in on the scene, breathless and shocked.

"Is that…?" Nephenee voiced a moment later. Her half-asked question was answered as Kieran shifted slightly and addressed his Queen.

"To the dungeons with him, milady?"

Elincia could manage only a nod and a somewhat strangled noise in reply. The knights seized the arms of the assassin, with a look of revulsion and smoldering anger respectively, and dragged his limp form from the room.

"You're okay… shh, Elincia, you're okay…"

Mist turned to watch as Ike comforted the Queen, holding her close even though his own eyes seemed distant, removed. Mist only took a moment to ponder over what could cause that glazed detachment, before realizing. Placing her hand on her brother's arm, she met his gaze.

"Soren?" she asked.

The flash of pain that entered his eyes said all she needed to know.

* * *

**Don't worry this thing still isn't close to being over I still have a character to get in here. Plus... ...well, no spoilers. **

**Thanks for reading! Plus also reviews make me write faster.**

**Kidding.**

**But they let me know someone's reading this and I appreciate them very very much.**

**Thank you.**


	25. Chapter 17

__**Sorry for the wait on this! The next chapter should be up soon! ENJOOOY~~!**

* * *

_"…not dead?"_

Soren took a long moment to process this. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, feeling how the air filled his lungs, feeling the pulse of life still in his body. He hadn't needed to ask. Greil had told him. And now he knew.

_"Do you wish that you were?"_

The question was unexpected, and Soren felt bereft of the words he normally held in vast supply. But ever since Greil had told him, and the mage himself had affirmed, that he was still alive, some new emotion had taken hold of him.

One that he could only define as… fear.

"I… am not sure."

Greil's response was silence, as he waited respectfully for the mage to sort out his thoughts.

"I am an outcast. I always have been. Must I… really go back to that world?" With a tone of bitterness, he added, "Being a lord will not change anything. If you put a dog in a fancy outfit, he's still a mongrel."

Impossibly, like flowers blossoming in winter, color bursting out from under the ice… Greil laughed.

"There are people who would go into conniptions if they heard you talk about yourself that way."

Soren, disgruntled, turned away, closing his eyes against his memories of life. "Ike will get along just fine."

He could hear the smile in the Commander's voice as he spoke again. "Who said I was talking about Ike?"

When the mage opened his eyes again, one final ghostly form appeared. Her silver gown fitted her slender frame perfectly, and the long blue hair that normally fell to outline her face had been twisted into a single, curling plait, held back with green ribbon that matched the emerald slippers and belt that she wore. Jade powder had been rubbed over her sapphire eyes, and the green gem set in silver that hung gracefully around her throat completed the picture that now stood before the mage and his dead Commander.

"…Lucia."

She said nothing, only extended her hand.

"There is nothing here for you, Soren."

"…she could never love me."

"She could not?"

Greil didn't need to say anything more, for the apparition of Lucia was already in motion. The scene that formed around her was of a balcony, and a ghostly form of Soren, dressed for the ball, faded into existence. The pair took hands and danced, growing closer and closer until their lips met.

"She_ kissed _you_, remember?"_

"She slapped me the week after."

"…and after that?"

The mage had no time to reply, for the scene was already changing. Now, they were in the hallway, after the second attempt on the Queen's life, which the mage himself had narrowly averted. Her hand rested on his shoulder and pulled him around to face her. The voices of his and Lucia's past selves came to him faintly.

"I'm seeing more and more how good it is that you're around."__

And they kissed again.

Finally, the scene moved to a darker location, the kitchen where the assassin had attacked Soren. In she came, with Ike. Shaking hands pulled the mage's face into her lap as he gasped out his final words.

As he turned to look at Commander Greil's face, he saw that coy, yet wise, smile. "After all you've survived, you're going to pass into death this way?" His expression turning more serious, he put his cold hand on the mage's still-warm shoulder. "You don't belong here. Not yet."

The mage closed his eyes, the images that he had just seen still swimming in his mind's eye behind his eyelids. As he opened them, he was shocked to see that the scene had faded, leaving only Lucia behind. Her hand extended for the mage's.

Soren stood, looking around the Abyss. Besides Greil and Lucia, there was nothing here. There was nothing_ here._

Greil stood alongside him, giving the mage a push in Lucia's direction before letting go of his shoulder.

There was nothing more that needed to be said, and both men seemed to know this. Without a word of parting, as he had gone in life, Greil moved away, into the realm Soren no longer belonged to.

The mage, with nothing more to do, took Lucia's hand.

-

As the King-to-be's retreating footsteps thundered from down the hallway, Lucia turned back to the mage's limp form. Her hand reached for Soren's pale one, lifting it and stroking the back gently. Unspeakable pain was etched on her face as she clung to the dead mage's bloody hand. Trembling fingers brushed his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Soren," she said quietly.

She wasn't sure if sorry was what she was, or what exactly she _was_ feeling. She felt guilt, but she didn't know if she should – was this truly her fault? It had been her plan, somewhat, and things had gone so horribly wrong… _she_ was supposed to be the one taking the risk, not Soren. Was this her fault? Was it anyone's? She couldn't think straight, it seemed, as she clutched the mage's hand, willing him to come back, to explain somehow, as he was always able to, what had gone wrong. Yet, this time, there would be no coming back.

She bent over the mage's chest, his hand held in both of hers, and felt unwanted tears stream down her face. She had no thought of appearances, of politics, of anything, only the terrible, terrible sight of _this_ mage lying dead before her.

Suddenly, she stiffened as she felt light pressure on her hand. Hardly daring to believe her own eyes, she looked down to see that he had curled his fingers around hers, a tremor moving through him as he took a small, sudden breath.

"…Soren?" she called gently, her heart knotting in her throat as his eyelids fluttered. His eyes took a moment to look around and ascertain where he was, before moving to look up into Lucia's tear-stained face.

"…not dead," he whispered.

"You're… you're not dead," she whispered back. She froze for a second, mind struggling to process the emotions running through her. As quickly as it did catch up, it did not seem fast enough. She gathered the mage into her arms, feeling like she could never hold him close enough. He let out a small, quiet wince, and almost as quickly as she had embraced him, she sat him back on the ground, looking over his brutally beaten, weak body.  
"You're not dead," she reaffirmed, more to herself than to the mage. "…but you still need help."

Her eyes were quick to find the source of his pain. The mage's hands twitched in the direction of his side, and her eyes widened as she saw the wound that, inexplicably, had not been healed by Mist's staff. She slid her fingers under his shirt, lightly brushing the wound, before sliding her hand around to feel the exit wound at the back.

"I have to get you to a healer," she murmured. Knowing that she had to act quickly or Soren's life would drain away while he was in her arms, she set about finding a way to close the wound. The supply room was only a few doors down, and she knew that there were medical supplies in there. If she could just move him...

She reached her arms around him and lifted him, pulling his torso from the blood on the ground with a sickening squelch. She pulled the cloth veil from her face and pressed it against his side, hoping to stem the flow of blood until she could get him proper bandages. It was then, as she wrapped the cloth around him to slow the bleeding, that she saw the purple streaks in the liquid that flowed from his body. The fluid had been tainted by the envenomed knife, and ran from the mage's body in a purple-hued stream, adding to the dark pool beneath him.

"Poison," she whispered, her eyes wide in shock. "Mist's spell didn't work."

Realizing what little time she had to work, she gently lowered him to the ground again. She rested the mage's head back on the floor, picked up his hand, and laid it over the wound. She could run to the supply room and back so much faster, if she did not have to carry him…

"Press hard," she commanded, "I'll be right back."

She rose, running as best as she could in the large dress towards the supply room. It took her just a few minutes before she was hurrying back. In her arms she cradled various objects associated with healing – in her panic, she'd grabbed items at random, and wasn't entirely sure what exactly she had brought back. She made sure that among the supplies was an Elixir, the most potent healing potion in beorc knowledge, and, as a precaution, a large needle and wire-thread. She rushed back to the room, kicking the door to open it. Rushing over to the mage, she quickly knelt beside him. Her hopes faltered as she brushed the few, jaggedly cut strands of his bangs back from his face. Soren's eyes had closed, and she feared the worst. But in that same instant, she also saw his chest rising and falling with haggard breaths, and his knuckles white from the force he used to keep the wound closed.

"Open your eyes."

He complied, looking up towards her voice. His hand slipped slightly as she grabbed his shoulders.

"I have to get to the wound," she said, keeping her tone even and controlled despite the worry she felt, "Keep pressing."

She slid the fabric of his robes off his shoulder, ripping it down the middle to his navel. His eyes had closed once again, but by willpower alone he was still conscious – she knew this because he responded when she spoke.

"I'm going to try using an Elixir," she said, working her hand under his so that she now held the wound, "If that doesn't work, I—" her voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly steadied it, "I'll have to stitch it."

He made a quiet, affirmative sound in response, letting his hand fall away and allowing her to push back the layer of fabric between his skin and hand, allowing her to view the wound unobscured.

For a moment, she could do nothing but gape. The wound seeped out Soren's blood, dark and thin (though the flow had dramatically lessened from before). The veins around were a blackened spiderweb, letting her see the flow of poison up the left side of his body. She shook herself from her shock and set to work. Shaking hands uncapped the blue bottle and poured a stream of clear, healing panacea onto the gash. It mixed in as oil and water, and Lucia felt her resolve wane. Suddenly in the grip of despair, her shoulders heaved and a quick sob escaped her lips. She pressed her hand over her mouth and grit her teeth, taking a deep, steadying breath.

"It's deep," she heard herself say, "But it's not wide. It'll only be… fifteen, twenty stitches," she estimated while trying not to look at the wound. She moved her hand around to check the smaller, thinner exit wound. "Yes… about twenty." When she looked down, it was to light pressure on her hand, and his crimson gaze.

"Short, steady strokes," he whispered, in a tone more even than she would have expected. He took a moment to gather himself, and spoke again, "It won't hurt me."

His words, comforting as they were meant to be, merely deepened the aching pain inside her. Here she was, in the process of saving his life, and yet _he_ was the one comforting _her_? What sort of mess what she?

"Please," he murmured, voice thin, "Hurry."

She nodded and broke away from his gaze, rallying her strength and focusing on nothing but closing the gash. Trembling fingers steadied themselves as she picked up the large sewing needle and placed it against his skin.

"Relax," she assured, ignoring the emotions welling inside her, "I'm not letting you go."

He barely reacted as she broke his skin with the needle and set the first stitch, pulling the wound closed. She knew that he was weak, but she could not allow herself to think about that as she worked – for if she was weak, how could he be strong? She got in seven more stitches before she noted a change in Soren's demeanor. His eyes were writhing behind his eyelids, and meek whimpers escaped his throat.

"I'm almost done," she murmured, and the sound of her voice seemed to reassure him, "Stay with me. You can get through this."

He forced his eyes open, and widely dilated pupils began to jump about the room. "I can't see," she heard him murmur.

"It's okay," she tried to soothe, then continued speaking aimlessly so that he could have something to distract him. "I think that it might snow once more before spring truly arrives," she said, "The air's turned cold. I'd wager that there will be frost on the ground in the morning…"


End file.
